


Fraldarius Teal and Galatea Green

by orochiis



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Canon Compliant, Dancing, Discussions of sex, F/M, and there was only one bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:13:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28965168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orochiis/pseuds/orochiis
Summary: In arranging their own marriage, Felix and Ingrid must come to terms with their confusing feelings for one another.Written for Felix Rare Pair Week
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Ingrid Brandl Galatea
Comments: 16
Kudos: 68
Collections: Felix Rarepair Week 2021





	1. To Have And To Hold

**Author's Note:**

> Subtitle: Felix learns some manners.

“Do you, Felix Hugo Fraldarius, take Ingrid to be your wife?”  
  
“I do.”  
  
“And do you, Ingrid Brandl Galatea, take Felix to be your husband?”  
  
“I do.”  
  
“Then in the eyes of Sothis and the law, I pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your bride.”  
Ingrid’s grip tightens in Felix’s as he leans towards her. They practiced this once, a few weeks ago, a simple brushing of lips that still made Ingrid feel vastly uncomfortable. She can’t imagine how Felix feels either – he’s never been one for public displays of affection, or any affection for that matter. But in front of their gathered families and the head of the Eastern Church of Seiros, Felix kisses Ingrid, and seals their union.

They planned this years ago, between themselves, knowing that both of them were doomed to an arranged marriage anyway, and so they may as well just arrange their own marriage. Ingrid’s name was already carved into Fraldarius history, and precedent suggested that her planned marriage to Glenn should just move down to Felix.

When they reported the news to Duke Fraldarius and Count Galatea, they didn’t look at all surprised. This would’ve happened anyway, they were told, unless a more suitable candidate could be found. The title of Duke would pass down to Felix, rather than Glenn, and along with it came all his marriage plans. Ingrid’s face pales at the idea.

She’s had two arranged marriages in her life, and this now makes a third. Did she love Glenn? When she thinks on it now, at twenty-two, she thinks that the answer to the question that has haunted her for most of her life is a definitive no. She liked him, yes. But in the same way she likes Felix – more like a brother, a companion. They could have gotten along well, and she’s certain that she would have managed to live a happy life. But love? Ingrid isn’t sure that love exists.

The second arranged marriage ended even worse than the first one. Yes, losing your fiancée at thirteen is not an enjoyable experience, and involved a lot of crying at the time. But almost being murdered at seventeen because the man in question is as dodgy as they come is another level of trauma that Ingrid has never quite managed to process, especially when the man in question is probably still out there.

This third marriage is considerably better than the first two, but has still robbed Ingrid of all her autonomy. Felix has always been her best friend. It makes the decision easy, in a way, because she knows that beyond that prickly exterior is a man that will never hurt her, not physically anyway. Part of her hopes that he’ll change his ways too, stop calling for her to stay of the battlefield, to stay at home, where she “should be”.

A tiny, deluded part of her brain tells her this is Felix’s way of caring. He doesn’t know how to articulate the fact that he cares for her, and thus tells her to stay away from the one job she knows she’s really good at, and wants to do. Felix is good at it too, she knows. And in that last battle, before they ran, he spent the whole time diving in front of her to shield her from attacks. That’s his job – the Shield of Faerghus. But he’s not shielding who he’s supposed to be, and now Dimitri is gone.

He grabbed her hand then, and they fled from Garreg Mach with only the clothes on their backs and the weapons in their hands. Sylvain was there too, and the three of them trekked from the heart of Fódlan back home, fighting off stray Empire soldiers and cramming into single rooms at seedy inns until eventually, at a crossroads in the middle of the Kingdom, they went their separate ways.

It’s scary for a woman to travel on her own. Ingrid has known that since she was eleven years old. She couldn’t go into the town alone without accompaniment, usually from her brothers, because someone could and would try to kidnap her. It isn’t a pleasant thought, and one that plagues her mind as she made the last part of the journey on her own.

She is two days into the walk, which she estimated to take five, when the familiar clip clop of horse hooves began to make its way ever closer to her location. She has been staying out of sight the whole journey, walking at the side of the road, her makeshift travelling cloak (a stolen blanket from the first inn) pulled tightly around her. The horse gets closer, and stops abruptly beside her.

“Are you not tired?” Asks the familiar voice of the rider, and Ingrid looks up to see Felix on top of the horse.

Felix hates riding, hates horses in general. Ingrid knows this. And yet here he is, looking for all the world like one of the heroes from the old stories that she loves so much. Maybe it’s just her overactive imagination, but she thinks him rather handsome like this, long hair free from its usual constraints, cascading like the dark sea over his shoulders. He holds his hand out to her, and pulls her up.

For the first time in her life, Ingrid wonders if she could love Felix. If they’re going to war, their arranged marriage should be the last thing on her mind, especially considering they’ve only been engaged for a matter of months. But as Felix explains that he just couldn’t leave her out here alone, she’d definitely get die of the cold, Ingrid’s mind wanders.

They stay in separate rooms at House Galatea. Rodrigue makes the journey down with a small group of his soldiers – an early promise of protection while they sort out the details of their marriage. Ingrid avoids Felix like the plague until they leave again for Fraldarius, where she gives him the customary curtsey and he similarly kisses the back of her hand. Ingrid finds herself blushing at the action, and spends the rest of the day in her room in embarrassment, not noticing that Felix’s own cheeks were dusted pink.

Today, their wedding is a small affair. Only a few members of each family are gathered, mostly those from Felix’s side for whom the journey isn’t quite as long and potentially perilous. House Fraldarius hosts the wedding, but Rodrigue’s smile is strained the whole way through the ceremony. Count Galatea is quite the opposite – thrilled that Ingrid is gone, that Galatea is saved.

As Felix removes his lips from Ingrid’s, his eyes flash away, looking anywhere but at his new bride. The congregation clap politely. Felix offers his arm to Ingrid. She slips her hand into the crook of his elbow, gives him a terse smile, and together, they leave the little chapel in the Fraldarius town.

A carriage waits outside. Felix doesn’t help Ingrid in, clambering in himself and folding his arms across her chest. It’s up to Ingrid herself to haul her dress and herself into the carriage and close the door behind her when she absolutely certain that none of the material is caught outside.

“I don’t know why you’re wearing that thing,” Felix grumbles. “It looks ridiculous.”  
  
“I didn’t choose to wear it,” Ingrid huffs. “I look like a smooth sheep.”

“What sort of comparison is that?” He asks, turning to look at her properly.

“I don’t know. I’m… stressed.”

She kicks her shoes off, uncomfortable heels that she’s never learned how to walk in. If it was up to her, she’d be wearing trousers and riding boots, and maybe the nice mint coloured silk shirt she was given for her last birthday. But instead she was forced into a tight-laced corset and a huge white dress with what feels like hundreds of stupid layers of fabric. Faintly, she wonders if she can sell the dress – she’s sure it’s worth a lot of money.

“I’m sorry,” Felix says quietly.

“What for?”  
  
“This was my idea. And it’s going terribly.” He twists the band on his ring finger absently, letting out a sigh the likes of which Ingrid has never heard from him.

“We’ve been married for five minutes, Felix.”  
  
“Five terrible minutes.”  
  
“I’ll divorce you if you keep being so negative. This isn’t about us.”

“I know,” Felix murmurs. “But I’m still sorry.”  
  
“You heard them, back then. This was going to happen either way. At least… we got a say, this time. We got to pick when. Otherwise they just would have sprung it on us.”

“Is it illegal to lie in a wedding? All the vows… that was just a load of shit, really.”

“Probably,” Ingrid concedes, resting her head on the back of the carriage. “Till death do us part.”  
  
“Till death do us part,” he echoes.

She’ll never tell him, but Ingrid does fully intend to stick to her vows. Maybe that’s just who she is as a person. But that’s what she’s gotten herself into – a lifetime of pretending that she loves Felix. To have and to hold. His hand, maybe, when they have to. For better or worse. Mostly worse, with him. For richer or poorer. At least her family get the former, now that she’s gone through with it.

In sickness and in health. In wartime injury, more like. She knows he nearly lost his arm last year – that’s the reason their wedding had been delayed this long. She’s had her fair share of scrapes too. To love and to cherish. Ingrid does love him, she thinks. Maybe not the way she’s supposed to, but it’s much better to marry a friend that you love than a complete stranger you’ll only resent.

Till death do us part.

Their carriage arrives at the Fraldarius Manor with a little bump. This time, Felix clambers over Ingrid to get out first, and holds his hand out to help her. She reluctantly forces her feet back into the most unnatural shoes, and reaches for his hand with her own. He’s warm. That surprises her, so much so that she stumbles upon reaching the ground. Felix’s other hand goes out to steady her, pressing against her upper arm.

“You okay?”  
  
“I’m fine.”

“We still have so much to do today,” he grumbles, not letting go of her hand as they walk into the house. Their house keeper is there, and bows deeply to Ingrid until she dismisses him. She’s known the man for years – just because she’s the only lady in the house now doesn’t mean that things are any different.

“Signing the papers… Do you think if I sign with the wrong hand it’ll become null and void when we conveniently want it to?”

“I think they’ll notice before then,” Felix points out. He drops her hand suddenly, as if he’s only just noticed he’s still holding it. Ingrid is quick to notice the lack of warmth.

“I just want this day to be over,” Ingrid admits.

“Don’t we all.”

* * *

Dinner comes with speeches. Count Galatea talks about the long history of friendship between the two houses, and how this union is just a solidifying of their partnership for many years to come. Rodrigue speaks at length about how they cannot let the Empire win the war. They must band together, become an alliance against Cornelia’s rule in Fhirdiad. Ingrid spots the way Felix’s gaze drops to his empty plate at that – another reminder that Dimitri is missing from their day.

They try to get Felix to say something, as is traditional. He refuses staunchly, pretending he doesn’t even hear the requests. The chatter dies down, and dessert is brought out instead. Felix puts his portion onto Ingrid’s plate with a hint of a smile, which is returned with a grin.

The two of them dance. They have to, according to tradition. It’s a weird old metaphor for sex, Felix reminded her well before the wedding. Ingrid knew that, of course, but they had practiced a simple dance in the privacy of Felix’s room before the wedding. The servants probably had other ideas about where the noise was coming from, but it was just Felix stepping on Ingrid’s toes and then her stamping on his in retaliation.

Now they sway in the middle of the room, much closer than either of them would ideally like to be. Felix’s breath is hot against Ingrid’s neck, her grip on his shoulder much too tight. But they don’t stand on each other’s toes as they turn and step in place, to coos of adoration from their older relatives. Both of them are glad that Sylvain isn’t here.

“We’ll have to go soon,” Felix whispers into her ear.

“I know.”  
  
“I tried to convince my father to let you stay in your usual room, but the scumbag wouldn’t let us.”  
  
“What if I just go in anyway?” Ingrid suggests.

“Worth a try.”

“I’m sorry too, for what it’s worth. This whole situation is just… messed up.”  
  
“Let it go, Ingrid. It’s too late now.”  
  
“If you want out, ever, and I mean it, I’ll… turn a blind eye. If you find someone else, I am more than happy to let you be with them.”

Felix pulls back from their hold a little, far enough that he can look at her, rather than over her shoulder. With her heels on, Ingrid is now nearly the same height as him. Her expression is serious – she means every word she’s saying. He nods, slowly. On one hand, it’s kind of Ingrid to say such a thing. On the other hand… he’s not sure he’ll ever find anyone else. He’s lucky he’s got her.

“And the same goes for you,” he remembers to say after a moment. “I mean that, Ingrid. You’re more likely to find love elsewhere. And I know it would be a whole scandal, but we could make it work.”  
  
“There won’t even be a Kingdom in a few years,” she muses. “I think scandal is the last thing we need to worry about.”

* * *

Felix retires before her. There are mumblings from their family as he quietly explains to Ingrid that he’s tired. By the usual standards of the Kingdom’s nobles and wedding traditions, they should go together. But Ingrid wants to bid her family a goodbye before she heads to bed, before she crosses that final boundary with Felix that she’s not sure she’ll ever be able to take back.

They’ve spoke at length about the matter. Fraldarius is the most powerful noble house in Faerghus, and with only one current heir, it’s currently at risk of being dissolved or integrated into another house at the end of the current generation. So Ingrid and Felix must produce an heir.

Time is on their side, however, as is Rodrigue. He had the luxury of marrying for love, and Glenn came along quickly after he married his wife. But since his son does not have that luxury, he’s not forcing a baby to come along as soon as possible. Ingrid discussed the matter with him a while ago, and asked for his discretion. If anyone asked, Rodrigue would say they were trying.

Felix doesn’t want to have sex yet. He’s made that abundantly clear. Ingrid isn’t too keen on the idea either. Not at the moment, they’ve both said. It’s a necessary evil, and even if they’ve had years to come to terms with the idea, the thought of jumping into bed after such a stressful day is practically repulsive.

One day, they’ll have to. It might even be enjoyable when it does happen. It’s been embarrassing to talk to Felix about it when he hates all talk of love and romance. Ingrid has reminded time and time again that it’s _not_ romance, it’s politics, and for him that’s worse. But they’ll have to pop out a Fraldarius heir sooner or later.

Later means after the war is over, and they don’t have the impending threat of Imperial soldiers on their doorstep every day. Not good conditions for a pregnancy, Ingrid has argued tonight to the many older relatives who can’t even wait twelve hours to ask about babies. Besides, she’s a knight, and knighthood takes priority over motherhood for her. Part of her wants to say it always will, but she doesn’t rule out the thought of how happy she might be holding her own child.

So Felix departs, pressing his lips to her cheek in a chaste, and fake, show of affection. It’s odd, because everyone here knows this is not a marriage of love. Yes, they do love each other, but not the way they’re expected to. Friends, and that’s all.

With Felix gone, Ingrid makes her way over to the table where her family are seated. Galatea weddings are often a lot rowdier than this elegant affair. But they’ve been getting along okay, with a lot of drink in her brothers to sedate them. As she approaches, her mother rises from her seat, making her way closer to hold Ingrid’s face in her hands.

“You really are such a beautiful bride,” she coos, her eyes misted with tears. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

“I’m just here to say goodnight.”  
  
“And goodbye,” her mother says.

“No. I… don’t want to stay here. Not all the time, at least. I’d like to come back to Galatea in a few weeks, to sort things out, now we have some more funds.”  
  
“It’s dangerous,” Count Galatea warns, pulling himself to his feet. “I don’t like the idea of my daughter riding through the Faerghus countryside alone.”  
  
“I’m sure that House Fraldarius will be able to send me adequate protection.”  
  
“I can’t stop you. At least stay safe. Bring your lance.”  
  
“I always will. I’m stronger than most Imperial soldiers.”  
  
“You know how your father feels about that,” her mother hisses. “Please be sensible, Ingrid dearest. And you should head to bed soon. You look awfully tired.”  
  
“It’s been a stressful few weeks,” Ingrid admits.

Her mother pulls her into a hug – a rarity from the woman – and pats her on the back. Ingrid is almost reluctant to draw away, knowing what she doesn’t want to face but is waiting for her upstairs anyway. She turns on her heel and slowly walks away.

The corridors of the Fraldarius Manor all look the same. Servants bustle up and down each one, with plenty of guests to look after tonight. Ingrid knows where her old room is, and pretends to be lost on the way to find it. Down a corridor with potted plants, past the large painting of the last Duke Fraldarius, and then the door beside the painting of the first Fraldarius, that beautiful woman with dark hair and sharp eyes on an armoured Pegasus.

How funny, Ingrid thinks, that her child could look like that. The physical characteristics of Felix, paired with the personality and strength that is so unique to her. Ingrid wishes she could have met her, a woman now known only as Fraldarius. Looking at the painting, she feels much more of a connection to her than she ever did to Daphnel of her own house.

With no one around in this corridor, Ingrid tries the handle of the door to her room, turning it quickly. It always had a tendency to get stuck, but this time it’s definitely locked. Cursing her terrible luck, she considers knocking it down, but a servant rounds the corner with an armful of towels before she has time to fully weigh up what the consequences of that might be.

“Lady Fraldarius!” The servant cries, bowing her head. Ingrid winces at the new title. “I didn’t expect to see you over on this wing.”  
  
“Just reminiscing,” Ingrid lies, running a hand across the bottom of the portrait’s frame. “And I fear I’m a bit lost.”  
  
“I can walk you to your quarters, if you’d like.”  
  
“No worries,” Ingrid says. “I’m sure I can find my way eventually.”  
  
She’s stalling, she knows that, but the servant gives a nod of her head and scuttles past her. Ingrid knows well where Felix’s room is – they spent plenty of time in there as children playing and reading and napping. They danced together there mere weeks ago, and she kissed him there too, when they practiced for that most public of kisses.

She trudges along the corridors, through the large foyer of the house and toward the east wing, where she knows the Duke’s quarters, plus that of Felix and Glenn’s now empty room are. Ingrid no longer cares for the state of her dress, certain that her heels have unpicked the hems. She just wants to take it off, and her desire to sell it on has been replaced with a desire to burn the wretched thing.

Eventually, she finds herself outside Felix’s room. The carpet here is scuffed from years of the four of them skidding into the room, not stopping or slowing down and crashing into the floor more often than not. Ingrid’s hand rests on the handle, gathering the strength to turn it. She doesn’t want to go in, for if she does, the last shred of her autonomy disappears forever.

But the door opens anyway, and there stands Felix. His hair is down, and for the first time Ingrid notices that it’s shorter than it used to be. His night shirt is loose and mostly unbuttoned, and he looks as shocked to see her as she is to see him.

“I was just coming to find you,” he explains, taking a few steps back. “You were taking a while. I got worried.”

“No need.”

Carefully, Ingrid takes a step over the threshold. She breathes out deeply, causing Felix to raise an eyebrow. She shakes her head, and he walks away to perch at the end of the bed. Seeing him dressed like this makes her feel even more ridiculous in this dress.

“Are you going to change?”  
  
“I was planning to, but I don’t… I don’t know how to undo a corset by myself.”

It’s almost shameful to admit – how does a noblewoman of her age and standing not know such a simple task? But Ingrid has never kept up with fashion, and now finds herself stuck in such a ridiculous garment. Felix’s eyes stay firmly on the carpet.

“I can help, if you need. It can’t be that hard. And I promise I won’t look.”

Ingrid agrees. Her nightclothes are set out on the bed. She kicks the cursed shoes off and wiggles her way into the trousers under the dress. She faces the wall, her back to Felix, pulling her hair out of the way, and lets him undo the millions of buttons on the back. His hands are still warm, she notes, but this time they’re shaking too.

The dress falls to the floor – Ingrid kicks it unceremoniously out of the way. It doesn’t go very far, held down under its own weight. Now Ingrid is just left in her corset and trousers. Felix averts his eyes as she reaches for her nightshirt – even though she’s completely covered, it’s only respectful.

As it turns out, taking a corset off is a lot more complicated than it seems. The laces don’t seem to go anywhere – there isn’t a start or an end. Felix pulls at the laces for five minutes before he lets out a cross huff.

“It’d be quicker just to rip the fabric,” he says, and Ingrid turns her head to him.

“Go for it.”  
  
“Seriously?”  
  
“I’m never going to wear it again. It’ll be… satisfying.”

“Alright then.”  
  
With another huff, this time of exertion, Felix takes two pieces of the fabric on the corset and tears downwards. The sound is satisfying, and after Ingrid gets her nightshirt on, she tosses it in the pile with her dress and shoes. Finally, she turns back to Felix, who feels like he definitely saw too much skin.

“Do you have a hair tie?”  
  
“Yeah, somewhere.”

It’s a good excuse not to look at Ingrid. There’s a stash of ribbons in his desk drawer, and he’s happy to give one to Ingrid. The way she braids her hair is mesmerising, but it still makes him feel sad when he remembers that she only started doing that after Glenn died, because that was how he did his hair.

“You know, I never thought the term “bodice-ripper” would come into play in my own life. I thought that was just a genre of trashy novels,” Ingrid jokes, flinging her plait over her shoulder.

“Shut up. It was a necessity.”  
  
“Very true.”

The two of them stand in silence. Ingrid’s toes curl uncomfortably on the carpet of Felix’s bedroom. His bed lies in front of them, an intimidating expanse of mattress and blanket that Felix has slept in for twenty-two years of his life, but has never shared with another person. And now Ingrid is to lie there too.

It takes them a moment to get into bed. The blankets are heavy for some reason. Eventually, they manage. They blow the candles out. They turn away from each other, each lying on their side, facing the wall, a long stretch of bed between the two of them.

“Goodnight,” Ingrid murmurs, knowing full well she’ll not be getting any sleep.

“Goodnight,” Felix repeats, knowing exactly the same.

* * *

Ingrid wakes with the sense of dread one gets from waking in an unfamiliar location. It’s still dark outside – meaning it’s still the middle of the night, considering the time of year. Once she gets her bearings, her train of thought is interrupted by a soft snore from Felix to her right – ah yes. She had almost forgotten about him. They’ve both moved in their sleep, closer together. Now they face each other, and Felix’s arm is thrown haphazardly over her waist, seeking her out even in his sleep.

Ingrid shuffles around a little, disturbing Felix enough that he turns over to face the wall once more. She’s warm, and pushing the covers down to expose bare arms does little to chill her. The Verdant Rain Moon was perhaps not the best time for a wedding, known for its rainy days and sticky nights. They’d avoided the rain yesterday, but the night is humid, made worse by the fact that Ingrid has to share a bed.

Eventually she manages to drift off again, her dreams plagued with that stupid dress and someone else at the end of the aisle, someone that looks suspiciously like Felix but isn’t quite. When she wakes again it is to Felix shaking her gently, the sun bright through the windows. Her face is wet with tears.

“Sleep okay?” He murmurs, uncharacteristically caring.

“Fine. A bit warm.”

“Yeah. May hold onto that while it lasts – it gets cold in Fraldarius quickly.”  
  
“I know.”

She swings her legs over the side of the bed, her toes meeting soft carpet. Her face is sticky with tears, and she wipes furiously at her cheeks. Before Felix can, she makes her way to the bathroom, washing the sweat from the night off her face, staring in the mirror for a long time, trying to calm herself down. It’s okay. Nothing to worry about. Nothing has gone wrong yet.

Felix goes in after her, and Ingrid is quick to root around in her bag, conveniently brought to the room for her, for something to wear. She had just packed riding trousers and shirts, and after the pain of yesterday’s outfit, Ingrid isn’t sure she’s ever been so glad to put on her boots. There are still lines on her torso from where the corset dug in – she runs her fingers along them, attempting to relieve some of the pain.

Unfortunately, her brain has other ideas, and remembers how soft Felix’s hands were on her shoulders as he tried to undo the corset. His touch was surprisingly gentle, his fingers warm and deft, even if he didn’t know what he was doing. She shakes her head, dispelling those images before they go any further, and concentrates on redoing her braid.

Ingrid didn’t notice Felix taking any clothes into the bathroom with him, but he emerges fully dressed, not too dissimilarly to her. He stares blankly in her direction, before nodding his head towards the door. He hasn’t bothered to fix his hair, she notes, but it is his house, and he probably cares much less than she does anyway.

“You like breakfast, right?” He asks as they make their way back downstairs.

“I like all meals, Felix.”  
  
“Yeah. Just checking. This will probably just be us and the old man.”  
  
He’s right, much to Ingrid’s relief. Rodrigue sits at the head of the table, and Ingrid and Felix take up spots on either side of him, opposite each other. Duke Fraldarius nods in Ingrid’s direction – she forces a smile, and pays attention to her food.

“Sleep well, Ingrid?” Rodrigue asks, a smile appearing on his face.

“More or less.”

She doesn’t tell either of them about Felix wrapping his arm around her, or how she dreamed about Glenn. Neither of them need to know. Poached eggs are very interesting.

“Any plans for today?”  
  
“Training,” Felix says bluntly. It sounds like that’s always his answer.

“You got married yesterday, Felix. I’m sure you could spare a day off to spend time with your new wife.”  
  
“She can come with me.”

“Ingrid?”  
  
“Absolutely,” she says quickly, because there’s nothing more _normal_ than beating Felix up and being beaten up in return. Felix’s eyes glimmer with anticipation, itching for a fight already.

“Does your father know about your dreams of knighthood?” Rodrigue asks, spearing some asparagus on his fork.

“Used to,” Ingrid says, afraid to look at him or Felix. “I told him I didn’t care anymore about that, just to make him shut up about it. But I still will be a knight. I can do both being… Lady Fraldarius, and General… Galatea, I suppose.”

“Wonderful.”  
  
“We have to go,” Felix says suddenly, pushing his chair back.

Rodrigue looks surprised, but Ingrid is quick to catch on. She grabs a slice of bread as she leaves, following quickly in Felix’s angry footsteps. It’s easy to catch up with him, and once she does, he slows a little so they can fall into step.

Fraldarius Manor’s training grounds are beat up, not well maintained. Ingrid knows that this is solely due to how much Felix is in here, and not a question of how good their staff are at their job. He tosses her a training sword, and has the decency to wait until she’s finished her bread before he makes the first strike.

“You can’t be a knight and a lady,” he says as Ingrid parries his attack. She rolls her eyes.

“Says who?”

“Says everyone.”  
  
“Not your father.”  
  
“He’s full of shit.”

“He’s _right_ , Felix. I know you have-“ he strikes again, and Ingrid has to spin out of his reach. “-unresolved issues with knighthood, but it’s not all bad!”  
  
“You want to save Galatea so much so that you married a man you don’t love,” he says, bringing his sword down on her shoulder. That’ll leave a bruise. “And now you’re going to abandon your new territory, what your father signed for, to become a knight?”  
  
“You don’t even want me as your wife!” She cries, and he pauses long enough for her to get a crack at his ribs. She kicks his ankles, and he trips. She has an advantage now and takes full use of it, lunging at Felix, pushing him down further, and holding her practice sword against his throat.

“Dead.”  
  
“I yield.”  
  
She gets up off him, aware as she does that the position they were in was a lot more suggestive than she had intended. Felix brushes himself off, and holds his hand out to take the sword of her. The matter is dropped, but Ingrid understands that it’s only temporary.

“I’m going back to Galatea,” she tells him, and feels almost glad when his face visibly falls.

“You can’t.”  
  
“I’ve already told my mother. I can’t save Galatea from here. I won’t be long, though.”

“Take a few soldiers,” Felix insists. “For the journey.”  
  
“You think I can’t take care of myself?”  
  
“Take me with you.” Felix is _pleading_ , something that Ingrid has never heard him do, ever.

“I can’t.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“You belong here. You need to be here, to help lead the resistance.”  
  
“I can’t stay here,” he huffs.

Ingrid has the beginnings of an idea. It’s too risky to say it out loud, not here, but maybe if she leaves… She shakes her head. Carefully, she lifts Felix’s hands, enveloping them in her own. His hands aren’t much bigger than hers, she notices. She meets his gaze, and notices that his cheeks are flushed, and not just with exertion of their quick spar.

“I’ll write to you.”

She looks him dead in the eye. His mouth opens slightly, then his eyes flicker to the gardens just beyond and the soldiers stationed there. Felix nods, and drops her hands. He takes a step back, and something akin to a smile pulls at his lips.

“Come back?”  
  
“Of course.”

“I’ll miss you.”  
  
“Will you?” Ingrid snorts.

“Yes. You, um… You make living here a little more bearable.”  
  
“Then I won’t take too long.”

Ingrid leaves that evening, with two Fraldarius soldiers flanking her white horse, a beacon in the night for Felix to watch disappear over the horizon from his window.


	2. For Better Or Worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the "Family" prompt, in which Ingrid and Felix return to Garreg Mach.

_26 th Horsebow Moon, 1185_

_Dear Felix,_

_Hope things are going a little better for you. I know your life alone there isn’t ideal, and I wish I could come back and make things a little easier for you. How are your ribs? I hope I bruised them good – my shoulder is all purple and mother had a fit when she saw it. She also wasn’t happy about the state my wedding dress came back in, and says I’m awfully unladylike._

_I think being a lady is a load of shit, don’t you? Of course you do, you think most traditions are pointless. I miss you. It’s only been a few weeks, but we’ve spent a lot of time together over the last number of years, and it’s odd to think that I won’t see you again soon. Well, hopefully we will get to see each other._

_Do you remember that promise we made back at the academy? That we’d meet up in five years for the Millennium Festival? That’s this year. Hard to think it’s been so long since we left the monastery, but I suppose it was under less-than-ideal circumstances. They’ll hardly be holding the festival again this year, but I received an odd letter from Sylvain last week._

_I had been thinking it myself, but he had suggested we go back to the monastery anyway. A promise is a promise, after all. We’re not doing anything even remotely useful with our time, and I want to help with the war effort. What do you say?_

_Thinking of you,_

_Ingrid_

* * *

_9 th Wyvern Moon, 1185_

_  
Ingrid._

_I’m doing fine. Putting up wolf defences today even if it’s a bit early. My ribs are all healed now but I do think you maybe cracked one – good job._

_I think going back to the monastery is a mistake, and that Sylvain is full of shit. You are too, if you’re seriously listening to him. It’s too dangerous – Garreg Mach will be crawling with soldiers, especially if ‘her majesty’ knows about our plan to meet._

_I_ _’ll think about it._

_Felix_

* * *

_  
  
18 th Red Wolf Moon_

_Felix_

_Not going to bother with formalities since I know you hate them. Have you noticed the letters have been slow recently? I only got your one at the end of the last moon, but didn’t have anything particularly interesting to tell you._

_Hoping to see you soon, though. Have you given any more thought to what I asked in my last letter? It’s not too long until then. The resistance army could use your sword._

_All the best,_

_Ingrid_

* * *

_  
1 st Ethereal Moon, 1185_

_Ingrid._

_I’ll come. Meet me at that spot. You know the one._

_Felix_

* * *

In the middle of the night of the twenty second of the Ethereal Moon, a horse goes missing from a town a few miles from Galatea House. The owner of the stables wakes up in the morning a horse fewer, but a considerable amount of coin richer. A thief then – respectable in some ways, he thinks, but he’s still left without his best horse.

He asks around town about his horse. Had anyone seen or heard anything? The blacksmith had reshoed the horse two days previously, but was certain that he’d fastened the harness back on correctly and bolted the stable door. The innkeeper heard horse hooves against cobblestone late at night, and looked out to see who on earth was travelling so late. The person in question was cloaked, he explains, and there was no way for him to get a better look.

Usually travellers go around the village. They’ve built walls in the past few years for their own protection, although they’re not manned most of the time. Imperial soldiers pass through the area on occasion, but generally no one bothers this town. For such a crime to be brazenly committed… well, it was unusual to say the least.

On the morning of the twenty third of the Ethereal Moon, Count Galatea wakes up to a note left on the dining table. His daughter is gone. Usually, such a note would trouble a father, but he gave his daughter away months ago and has always been perplexed why she continues to hang around the house in which she grew up.

Lady Galatea is beside herself with grief. She’ll get herself killed, she wails. How could she do such a thing, when they’re in the middle of a war? Could she not have sat in House Fraldarius and been a good wife? Was that so much to ask of a young woman these days?

Count Galatea tuts – his only daughter was always the least sensible out of his children. He blames the influence of those boys she went to school with, and spent time with as children. And to think one of those was her _husband_! How does he feel about her running off to war in such a state, he wonders.

The heir to House Fraldarius is good at running. He’s been running for nearly ten years now, most notably from the problems that follow him. Now, he runs from House Fraldarius itself. More accurately, a horse runs. He left the gate open “accidentally” earlier in the day, and stops at the end of the path way to open the gate and close it behind himself.

His father knows about his plans, but pretends he doesn’t. There was a grumbly line in a letter from five years ago about the plan for the Millennium Festival, and at the time Rodrigue had found it so strange that it had stuck in his mind for that whole time. He told the groundskeeper not to lock the gate until after Felix had left, ensured that the cook would turn a blind eye when he snuck in for extra food, and had commanded the stable hands to have a night off.

When he looks out the window after midnight, he can see the black horse streaking down the path, his son on its back, a shapeless dark spot in the night. He keeps his hood up, but the Fraldarius teal gives it away. The horse is laden down with supplies. Two swords are strapped to his belt, two more on each side of the horse. The Fraldarius heir is off to war.

Travelling north, a white horse gallops through the night. Its rider has no time to stop, to rest, coaxing the creature into running just a bit faster, just a little, just enough that they’ll make it in time. Thankfully, the horse is well trained, and it speeds up as it tears along Galatea’s country roads. Its rider grins – not long to go.

There’s a crossroads deep into Galatea territory, where one path diverges into many others. If one takes the southerly path, they’ll end up on the road to Garreg Mach. A south easterly one takes you to Charon, and easterly one to Galatea. The north east path goes to Fraldarius, and the North right the way up through Gautier territory and to the border with Sreng. One of the western paths circles back around on itself, bringing the traveller to Faerghus’s capital, Fhirdiad.

Three horses gallop along this path tonight, the sunset chasing them. Light is dangerous, with Imperial soldiers all around. The black horse reaches the crossroads first, and its rider slides off its back after he checks that the coast is clear. He draws his jacket closer, warding off some of the chill of night.

He waits no longer than ten minutes for the sound of horse hooves to come into earshot, echoing along the path from Galatea. The horse they belong too quickly comes into sight, its rider quietly coaxing it into coming to a stop. The rider jumps down, far more experienced than the black horse’s rider. She lowers her hood, and smiles at her companion for the first time in four months.

“Your hair,” is the first thing that Felix says, attempting to stop his mouth from falling open. Her hair was long the last time they saw each other. Now her hair doesn’t even reach her shoulders. “It suits you.”

“Thanks,” Ingrid says, and she means it. She bounces on her toes, full of nervous energy. “It’s been a while.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Not getting into trouble?”  
  
“Of course I am,” Felix huffs. “Can’t live there without annoying everyone.”  
  
A third set of hooves clicks down the northern most path, and within a few minutes, Sylvain comes to a standstill, not even bothering to get off his horse. Unlike the other two, his is not a stolen horse, nor one he’s inexperienced with riding. This is a Gautier bred horse, adorned in the Gautier colours. Felix knows in his heart that the horse is the reason they’ll be killed before they get to Garreg Mach.

“How are my favourite lovebirds, then?” He coos. “Been a while.”

“We are not lovebirds, you imbecile,” Felix spits. “And we had better get going. It’s a two-day trek from here, and we need to find shelter for during the day.”  
  
“Harsh words,” Sylvain laughs. “How are you, Ingrid? Like the hair.”  
  
“I’m fine,” she says with a smile, genuinely glad to see him again. “Nice to see you’re in one piece.”  
  
“Nice to see you too, Felix!” Sylvain calls as the other man gets back onto his horse, trotting a few metres ahead. “Is he always this grumpy?”  
  
“You know him as well as I do,” Ingrid points out.

“Yeah, but you know him _intimately_.” There’s a waggle in Sylvain’s eyebrows, and Ingrid fixes him with a stern stare.

“No I don’t. This is the first I’ve seen of him since… since the wedding. We’ve written a few letters, but that’s about it.”  
  
“Trouble in paradise already?” He teases.

“Sylvain, you know that this was hardly ideal for either of us.”  
  
“Ingrid, hurry up,” Felix calls. Sylvain snorts – his tone, even now, is a lot less harsh than usual. Ingrid gets back onto her horse, and Sylvain raises an eyebrow.

“Do you always do what he tells you?”

“He wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for me,” Ingrid shoots back.

“Ah, so it’s like that. You have him wrapped around your little finger.”  
  
“I wouldn’t go that far.”  
  
Ingrid pulls her cloak up again, hiding the blush that’s spreading over her cheeks. They may be married, but she would never for a moment consider that she has any sway over Felix. He’s always been such a lone wolf, and she can’t imagine that would ever change. But she remembers, not for the first time, the feel of his hands on her back, his arm over her waist, their bodies pressed close together, the two times they kissed and how clumsy they both were.

Felix has always been a friend to her. Their marriage doesn’t change anything between them. It _shouldn’t_ change anything between them. But Sylvain has always been too smart for his own good. He’s really good at reading people, even if he never really uses those skills for a sensible reason. But maybe he can see something that Ingrid can’t.

She’s never felt that she’s been particularly emotionally intelligent. Felix isn’t either, even less so than her. Maybe Sylvain is right. That worries Ingrid, because she really isn’t sure that she wants this marriage if Felix is…

But he’s not. It’s a stupid thought. Felix can barely tolerate her, as far as she can tell. Yes, he begged her to stay, but she’s sure that he would have done the same to most people. Felix is Felix, same as ever, she thinks as his horse trots further and further away from her. A leader, trying not to be. Her best friend. Her husband.

Things will be different when they get to Garreg Mach. They won’t have to play the happy couple, surrounded by people that believe that they married for a pure reason. They’ll be at war, and trying not to die doesn’t really leave any room for falling in love.

* * *

Battle is not what was expected when they got to Garreg Mach. Felix is quick to jump off his horse, unsheathing his sword and immediately dispatching an enemy. Ingrid and Sylvain find weapons of their own, and guide their horses into the fray. There’s a flash of magic from the other side of the field – Annette and Mercedes are here, and if Felix squints, he can make out Ashe, ducking between buildings as he looses arrows.

Behind him, Felix faintly hears Ingrid’s shout, and turns around to parry an attack that he didn’t know was coming. He keeps the bandit distracted, and Ingrid canters towards them, impaling the man on the end of her lance. She grins down at Felix, pulling the lance now covered in blood from the man’s body.

“You’re rusty,” she says.

“I nearly lost my arm a year ago. Not my fault.”  
  
“Didn’t think you’d use that as an excuse.”  
  
He knows she’s goading him into trying harder, and it’s working. He rolls his eyes and runs off in the opposite direction. Ingrid follows behind him, and he can hear Sylvain behind them too. There are more bandits here, one of which looks like he might be the leader. If Ingrid was on her Pegasus she’d be able to get in close to him. Alas, they’re a bit too far away, and Felix doesn’t possess the magic skills to dispatch him from here.

Up ahead, there’s a further clash. Bandits fighting themselves? Most of who Felix imagined would be here is already accounted for. But it can’t be bandits, as there’s that all too familiar red glow that can only belong to relics.

In his head, Felix runs through the list of relics that he can think of – Lúin, the Lance of Ruin, Aegis Shield, all accounted for. Failnaught is presumably in the hands of someone from the Alliance, Freikugel resides at the border. Thrysus belongs to Lorenz – maybe it’s him? But he didn’t know about the plan to come back here, and Felix sincerely doubts that Sylvain invited him.

The truth is even more bizarre. With a flash of green hair, Byleth runs through the pack of bandits, the Sword of the Creator whipping around her as she takes out multiple enemies. Where has she been? They’re very nearly five years into fighting this losing war, and one of the monastery’s strongest has been hiding somewhere the whole time, and not on the front lines, trying to get Fódlan back on track. But it is not only her that seems to have risen from the dead.

Ingrid’s horse comes to a stop beside Felix at the same time that he realises that he’s frozen in his tracks. She dismounts, holding onto his upper arm, looking dead ahead. In the middle of the fray is none other than Dimitri, Areadbhar the source of the red glow. He died. Everyone knows that. He was executed for treason years ago, and yet here he stands, cutting down enemy after enemy, like a man possessed.

For a moment Felix wonders if that really is him. He’s taller, somehow, his hair all grown out. He’s lost an eye, Felix thinks, if that’s an eyepatch that he sees. At the same time, he’s not surprised at all – this is the Dimitri that Felix knew existed, told everyone about, and no one ever listened to him. Ingrid’s grip on his arm tightens.

“Ow,” he says quietly, but still loud enough for her to hear.

“Sorry.”

“We need to take out the leader.”  
  
“Is that him?” Ingrid asks, hissing through her teeth, as if she’s afraid to voice her thought out loud.

“Yes. We need to help.”  
  
“Okay. Let’s go.”

The two of them round the corner. From behind them comes a clacking of heels on stone – Mercedes. She looks grateful to see them, and Ingrid grins at her. For a moment, Felix considers asking her to heal what is definitely five bruises on his upper arm, but decides against it in favour of kicking the door down. Ingrid runs through first, lance firmly within her grasp.

She skewers one bandit, then a second, leaving an opening just wide enough for Felix to dash through and put his sword through the leader’s chest. He collapses to the floor without much of a fight, and Felix retrieves his weapon. He turns to Ingrid, her chest heaving with the exertion. She’s out of practice too, it seems.

“You have some…” he mumbles, reaching a hand to rub a splattering of blood from her cheek. “Oh, I’ve just smeared it.”  
  
“Never mind,” she says, swatting him away. “I’m used to it.”  
  
“Wow, I didn’t think you two were getting along so well!” Mercedes chimes in, and both of them turn their heads to see her, having completely forgotten that she was there.

“We’re not,” Felix deadpans.

“Oh. Well, I think you make a nice couple, regardless.”  
  
“Thank you?” Ingrid says.

“Don’t thank her,” Felix mumbles.

“I’ll do what I want,” Ingrid shoots back, remembering Sylvain’s words from a few days previously. Felix raises an eyebrow before his face settles back into his natural scowl.

“We should head back now,” Mercedes says, breaking the weird tension that she had inadvertently caused. “Are you both okay? Do you have any injuries?”  
  
“Don’t think we’ve been here long enough for injuries,” Ingrid admits, stepping over a body, pausing to pilfer the poor man’s sword and absently handing it across to Felix.

“I think His Highness and the Professor did most of the hard work,” Mercedes admits, looking over her shoulder.

“Did you know?” Felix asks.

“Not at all,” she says, her face falling. “I wish I did. Perhaps I could have done something to help.”  
  
“The boar is long past helping,” Felix says, tucking his bloodied sword into the scabbard and twirling the new one in his hand experimentally. “Let’s go. It’s almost dawn.”

* * *

As soon as they get to the monastery, Ingrid leaves his side. Felix isn’t sure how to feel about this at all. She’s been a mainstay in his life for so long – they’re married now, for Goddess’ sake. But she sees Annette, and the shorter girl immediately sprints towards her and envelops her in a hug. They’re talking loudly about Ingrid’s hair. Annette is quick to spot the ring on her finger once Ingrid removes her gloves, and sends a curious glance in Felix’s direction.

At dinner, Ingrid sits at the other end of the table with Dorothea and Lysithea. Just like Annette, Dorothea talks very loudly. It must be a choir thing, Felix thinks bitterly. This time, Dorothea is talking about him, and he can feel everyone else’s eyes on him as he tears his dinner apart. He really doesn’t need Dorothea’s opinion on their sex life when they don’t even have one.

He manages to spare a glance towards Ingrid when Dorothea has been distracted by Lysithea listing off a cake recipe. She looks embarrassed, her entire face flushes as red as Felix’s feels. She shoots him an apologetic look, before Sylvain slings an arm around his shoulder and forcibly drags him out of the dining hall.

They walk to the training grounds – usually Felix’s favourite place. But he got real life battle experience today and as such doesn’t need to train. Really, he’d rather go to bed and rest – he’s still not used to riding for such a long period of time, and his legs are sore. Sylvain has other ideas though, and Felix finds himself sitting on the ground just outside the training grounds when they discover the door is somehow locked.

“We could break it open,” Felix suggests.

“Too much hassle. We’ll look for the key in the morning. I imagine it’ll need cleaning as much as everywhere else.”  
  
“Good stamina test.”  
  
“You need to get a hobby.”  
  
“I do. It’s training.”  
  
“Please take up embroidery or something,” Sylvain suggests.

“I’m not a _girl_.”  
  
“For the one person I know my age that’s married, you do really seem to not like girls.”  
  
“I’m mostly indifferent to girls,” Felix says. It’s true – the only girl he cares remotely about is Ingrid, and maybe Annette and Flayn on days when they’re not actively being weird around him. “Why did you drag me out here anyway?”

“What’s going on with you and Ingrid?”  
  
“We’re married,” Felix answers flatly.

“I know that! I mean like… apart from that.”  
  
“Nothing.” And that’s the truth. As long as Felix holds feelings for Ingrid, she will never return them. And it’s a little sad to admit that these feelings he does have for her have been festering for many years. He’ll never admit this to Sylvain, of course, because who knows what he’ll do with the information.

“I heard what Dorothea was saying.”  
  
“Everyone heard what Dorothea was saying,” Felix sighs, rolling his eyes. “I swear, the woman hates me.”  
  
“Are you and Ingrid…” Sylvain trails off, but raises an eyebrow suggestively. Of all the people not to be able to say the word, Felix didn’t expect Sylvain to be one of them.

“Having sex?” He asks. Sylvain nods. “No.”

“Why not?”  
  
“Don’t want to.”

“Does she want to?”  
  
“Not as far as I’m aware.”

“Okay then.”  
  
“You’re so nosy.”

“I am worried about the sexual wellbeing of my friends!” Sylvain defends. So he _can_ say the word. “When you do start having sex, make sure she’s drinking the tea.”  
  
“I’m not an idiot!” Felix barks, feeling his face flush crimson. He’s imagined the situation an uncomfortable amount of times, many more than he’d admit to even himself. But it’ll happen once or twice after the war, no tea involved, and then they’ll never touch each other again. That’s how their relationship works.

“If you need advice on what to do, you can always come to me.”  
  
“I’m pretty sure it’s self-explanatory.”  
  
“Not if you want to make her feel good.”  
  
“It’s not going to happen, Sylvain! Stop talking about this, it’s weird.”  
  
“Do you not… like her?”

“I like Ingrid. You like Ingrid. Everyone likes her.”

“I mean like… well, I don’t know. I always got the vibe as kids that you were into her. And then after… after Glenn, you seemed not to care as much.”  
  
“They were engaged. She told me she couldn’t look at me because I look so much like him.”

He’s older now than Glenn ever got to be. He’s got Glenn’s sword, he’s got the shield that was always meant to passed on to the eldest son. He’s even got Glenn’s betrothed. He’s spent the last nine years of his life trying to live up to Glenn’s legacy – so much so that Felix isn’t sure where he ends and where Glenn begins. All he remembers of his old self is the tears, and he’s not sure that they can fall anymore.

“For what it’s worth, I think Ingrid likes you plenty. She’s turned down lots of wedding proposals before because the guy was gross and didn’t wash, or gave her the creeps, or didn’t have the assets that she needed to save Galatea. But not only did she accept your proposal, she married you.”  
  
“I don’t think you can speak for her, really.”

Felix gets up, dusts off his trousers, and walks away, leaving Sylvain alone at the training ground’s doors.

He goes to bed in a huff, flopping onto his old mattress in his old room, not caring for the layer of dust that he disturbs and immediately breathes in. Ashe, Annette and Mercedes said they were cleaning the rooms earlier on – clearly they hadn’t gotten as far as his yet. He lies there for what feels like a few hours, almost falling asleep multiple times before a sound outside disturbs him, or a muscle twinges and reminds him of his pain.

A knock comes to his door when the sky is beginning to lighten. He must have fallen asleep at some point, because the sound startles him. Outside his window, the dawn is orange and pink – nine am, he imagines, considering the dead of winter. Realising he never changed last night, he sighs, making his way towards the door.

He doesn’t really want to see her, but Ingrid stands in the doorway, her armour gone, a smirk plastered on her face. Felix finds that smirk unbearably attractive, but can’t imagine having the courage to tell her that. Curse him, and curse Sylvain for always putting ideas in his head.

“What?” He asks, the word coming out a lot grumpier than he intended.

“Found the key to the training grounds.”  
  
“I was gonna do that today,” he says, but she waves the long silver key in front of him anyway.

“Do you want to train? No weapons, just stretches and drills and running.”  
  
“Afraid I’ll beat you again?” He says with a smirk. He takes a few steps into his room to locate a new hair tie, and watches as Ingrid leans her hip on the doorframe.

“I think, if you remember back far enough, that I beat your ass into the ground last time we fought.”  
  
Felix turns away, fixating on his hair tie, and gathering his hair into a ponytail. He misses some sections, but can’t really find it in himself to care. All that fills his brain is images of Ingrid hovering above him, blade pressed to his throat, knees on either side of his pelvis. Her braid fell over her shoulder, the strands tickling Felix’s cheek.

“You cracked my rib,” he settles on eventually, turning back to her.

“And I’ll do it again. But we should have breakfast first. No point in training on an empty stomach.”  
  
“Of course you would say that.”  
  
He shoos her out of his room, and closes the door behind them. They fall into step comfortably, making their way along the corridor and down the stairs. The fishing pond is empty aside from Byleth on the pier, staring out at the water. They’re supposed to begin war councils today, but neither Ingrid nor Felix have been invited to the first one. He wonders if Byleth is supposed to be out here.

Annette falls in with them on the stairs to the dining hall having ran a few extra steps to catch up with them. Felix has never quite been so grateful for her timing – even if she thinks he’s weird for liking her songs, they do get along fairly well. And even better – if she joins them for breakfast, it’ll make Felix and Ingrid look less married, apart from the rings on their fingers of course.

Felix has considered taking his off multiple times. He was convinced that Ingrid would have removed hers by now, but the simple band stays on her finger at all times. Felix isn’t sure how he’s supposed to feel about that. Maybe she likes it as a piece of jewellery. Maybe she wears it out of a sign of duty. He’ll never know, and he probably shouldn’t care.

He eats toast. Annette has porridge. Ingrid eats toast and porridge. He’s not really sure where they’re getting all these supplies for food from. He had handed across all the food he’d stolen from the kitchens at home, which was mostly fruit and vegetables, and a few cups of oats that he’s sure has gone into Annette and Ingrid’s breakfasts. Maybe some people have found leftover food from when the monastery was operating, but he doesn’t trust that food one bit. The thought leaves him queasy, and he leaves the last quarter of his toast, which is quickly stolen by Ingrid.

“You eat so much,” he comments. She glares at him. “In a good way.”

“How is that a compliment?” Annette asks, looking across the table at him owlishly. “Are you saying she should eat less?”  
  
“Felix should eat more. Imagine not even finishing your breakfast!”  
  
“Where is this bread from?”  
  
“Mercie baked it!” Annette chimes in.

“And where did she get the ingredients?”  
  
“Seteth had enough flour from his travels to make a few loaves. They’ll do a few days if we’re careful.”

“You’ve still yet to explain how eating a lot is a good thing,” Ingrid says, kicking him in the shins under the table.

“Makes you strong. Lots of energy,” he says weakly, regretting opening his mouth at all. That seems to happen a lot around Ingrid.

“Let’s just go train,” she says, rolling her eyes, lifting her bowl to leave it at the front of the room with the rest of the dishes.

“I feel like we should volunteer for cleaning or something at some point,” Felix suggests.

“We could clean the training grounds while we’re there.”  
  
“Yeah. I feel like that’s only of use to us, though. No one else ever trains here.”

“Maybe with the war, people will take things more seriously.”

“I think you have high hopes for this army.”  
  
“Maybe they should be training then. Maybe I can enforce that.”  
  
“Maybe in your Pegasus battalion. You’ll hardly catch Lysithea running laps with you.”

Ingrid snorts at the mental image, pausing in her tracks to unlock the heavy oak doors of the training grounds and push them open. It’s a mess – there’s even the skeleton of an Imperial soldier. Ingrid pulls a face, but immediately sets about removing the bones. Felix tidies up the strewn weapons, rights the tipped over training dummies. When Ingrid returns half an hour later, the skeleton disposed of, the place looks a lot tidier.

“Stretching, then.”

“Do you not find the dead body weird?” He asks raising an eyebrow at her nonchalance.

“Not really. I’ve seen worse.”  
  
“Suppose.”

“You’ve gone soft, Felix,” she jests, elbowing him in the side.

“Probably,” he mumbles, though he’s not referring to the dead body.

As soon as they begin their warm up, Felix regrets wearing so many layers. Ingrid’s outer cloak was discarded before they began, leaving her in just her shirt and trousers. He has to strip off his cloak and jacket ten minutes in, and his white overshirt another half hour later. He’s a little self-conscious about his arms being exposed to her, especially with a large scar running down the left one. Either Ingrid doesn’t notice, or she doesn’t care, because her attention remains solely on her stretching.

The two of them do lengths of the training grounds – walking, jogging, running, sprinting, lifting their knees. Felix isn’t sure how this is supposed to particularly help his training, but it can’t be of any harm. Besides, Ingrid has nothing to do for a few days until a scout manages to find a Pegasus for her to go out and tame – none of the monastery’s pegasi were left behind, presumably taken by the Empire for their own forces.

And he likes getting to spend time with her. It feels so wonderfully normal to do something like this with her, what they used to do at the monastery back before everything went to shit. Sometimes Sylvain would come along too, Dimitri on days when he wasn’t too busy sucking up to the professor. Both of them found unlikely friends in Caspar and Raphael – Felix realises that they’ll probably never see them again.

Eventually, the two of them flop onto the ground, dusty as it always is, neither of them caring for the dirt that cakes their bodies. The sky above them, once beautiful colours that painted the day, now has turned grey, threatening rain. Felix feels a drip hit his arm, another one landing on Ingrid’s neck.

“Thanks for this,” she says, turning her head to look at him. “I really needed a good workout, and I know you’re the only person that truly appreciates it.”

“Honestly, I’ll appreciate going to the sauna and sweating out all the muscle pain later on,” he says, rubbing at his bad arm.

“Is it that bad?” Ingrid asks quietly. “I know you hurt yourself but…”  
  
“Old man got a healer from Fhirdiad. It was… bad. Dangerous too for her to come. She did a good job, but if it was my right arm I’m not sure I would’ve been able to hold a sword again.” A few more droplets of rain fall on him. Ingrid lets out a low whistle as she wipes a few from her face.

“Damn. You never said anything before. I know it’s not high on the list of things to discuss when you’re being forced to marry, but… if something like that happens again, I’d like to know.”  
  
“Sure. Whatever.”  
  
“You don’t need to be so blasé,” Ingrid huffs.

“I’m not. It’s just… weird. You want me to be so open about my feelings and stuff and I get why, but…”  
  
“It’s hard,” Ingrid fills in for him.  
  
“Exactly. It’s hard. Not who I am as a person. I… I envy your ability to talk so freely.”  
  
“Well, there’s a feeling,” Ingrid says in jest.

“Yeah, I guess.”

The rain picks up. Ingrid peels herself from the floor, holding a hand out to help him up. Felix hesitates for a moment, staring at her outstretched palm. He manages to gather enough brain power to accept it, and she hauls him up. He ends up much too close for his own liking, and stumbles back a little, lest he do something stupid.

They gather their clothes – despite being too warm, Felix puts all his layers back on. Knowing their luck, Sylvain will be right outside the door, ready to asks why half their clothes are off and not take the more sensible answer of training as the truth.

If he was sensible, Felix would now head to the sauna. But he’s not, and instead, he trails Ingrid like a lost puppy to the dining hall for lunch, where Sylvain also is. He clocks the sweat on both of them, how they’re out of breath, and how they arrived at the same time and have been missing from the morning, and his face splits into a grin.


	3. For Richer Or Poorer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Injury prompt, in which Felix receives a stab wound because I can Never let my female characters get injured for a man's character development.

Ingrid drags herself from the battlefield back to camp. There isn’t an ounce of energy left in her body. Her legs trail through mud, splatters of it caking up towards her knees. Her head is heavy with exhaustion, and she can’t wait to simply lie down on that uncomfortable mattress and sleep for forty-eight hours.

The battle at Gronder Field was perhaps the most difficult of Ingrid’s life. For once, they knew the layout of the land they would be fighting on in advance, having participated in a mock battle there five years earlier. But unlike that mock battle, the opposing sides have strong weapons and much more experience at their disposal.

Ingrid was instructed by Byleth to stay as far away from the side that the Alliance came from as she possibly could. Claude was a skilled archer, and could easily take out her Pegasus in one shot. The ballista in the middle of the field posed another problem for her – manoeuvring her mount took up most of her energy. Rarely did she dip low enough to take out an enemy until she got close to Hubert, her lance scraping his side before he teleported away.

She makes her way carefully to the medical tent, hoping someone will at least give her a damp cloth to wipe the rapidly drying mud from her face. There’s blood in there too, a large gash caused by an arrow that she barely dodged. It was mostly healed already, but it still stings a little.

Annette is the one she finds first, the redhead also covered in mud but sporting a grin all the same. They won, and that was good enough for both of them. She prods Ingrid’s body all over, and eventually deems her fine before handing her a cloth and a towel to remove the mud.

“Can’t believe we had to fight Claude and Edelgard at the same time,” Annette mumbles, sorting through her rapidly dwindling medical supplies. “I never thought we’d see them again. Not Claude, anyway. I know we’ll probably see Edelgard again, though…”  
  
“I think it’d be nothing short of a miracle if we managed to avoid fighting her again.”

Ingrid wipes her face, pulling a face as the cloth turns an ugly shade of brown. She stays in Annette’s tent for a while, watching as a few soldiers come by with various degrees of injury. Annette works more in triage than in real healing – anyone with severe injuries she sends on to Manuela or Mercedes, while she heals minor ailments. It’s interesting to watch her work; calming, even, after the day they had.

When the sun begins to set, casting orange light over the camp, Seteth comes by Annette’s tent, a hot bowl of stew in his hands. He looks as tired as everyone else feels, but manages to not be quite as caked in mud.

“Apologies, Ingrid, I didn’t know you were here. I would have brought you dinner too. I will insist that you eat and not Ingrid, Annette,” he says when Annette opens her mouth to protest. “While we’re all tired, I suspect you have quite a night of work ahead of you still.”

At that Ingrid bids the mage goodbye, following Seteth back outside. He’s a strangely calming presence, Ingrid has found over the past few months. She makes herself useful around the monastery by helping him procure supplies, volunteering in the kitchen chopping vegetables when he’s on dinner duty. They’ve washed dishes together too, and formed what may seem like a rather unlikely friendship.

When the mess tent comes into view, both Ingrid and Seteth stop in their tracks when they hear what can only be described as a bloodcurdling scream south of where they stand, on the battlefield that they left not too much earlier. Ingrid knows the sound of Dimitri’s voice well, recognises that scream as his. She takes a step forward, only to meet Seteth’s outstretched arm preventing her movement.

“Don’t,” he says softly, tiredly. “It’s not safe.”

“But-“  
  
“As much as I hate to say it, we don’t know what all Dimitri is capable of. We don’t need anyone else getting hurt.” Seteth’s eyes stare into the distance, his brow furrowed. “The professor has not yet returned either. I hope she’s alright.”

Ingrid swallows hard. What’s going on out there? She steals one last glance over her shoulder as she walks away. The scenery hasn’t changed, but deep down, she knows that something is wrong.

She eats her stew in the mess tent, glad of the shelter when the rain comes on again, heavier this time, with no sign of letting up. She even finds herself laughing when Dorothea comes in, soaked with rain, the usual bounce in her hair gone and the smile she wears replaced with a straight line of pursed lips. She sits with Ingrid and Ashe, and doesn’t say a word.

The tent clears over the next few hours, and Ingrid finally drags herself off to her own tent. On the way, she spots Byleth and Dimitri, hovering at the edge of the camp. It looks to be deeply personal moment and Ingrid doesn’t feel that she can intrude. Byleth holds Dimitri’s hand and he looks to be crying. Byleth’s head turns to Ingrid, sensing the movement from nearby. She shakes her head, and Ingrid moves on, trying not to worry about her friend.

There are more pressing concerns on Ingrid’s mind. She hasn’t seen Felix since before the battle. He was on the other side of the field, as per his orders. Byleth’s tactics leave no gaps, no mistakes to be made. They’re often separated, just as Byleth often separates herself and Dimitri, arguably the army’s two strongest hitters.

She slips into her tent, set up last night for a night of fleeting sleep. She changes out of her mud-soaked uniform, dropping her heavy armour onto the ground with a thud. She’s dreading doing laundry when they return to the monastery – maybe she can pawn her share of laundry off onto someone else. (No chance, she thinks drily, as she’ll almost certainly be landed with everyone else’s).

Just as she’s about to peel back the blanket covering her roll up mattress, there’s a shuffling of stones from outside. Ingrid stills, waiting for whoever is outside to pass. If it was an enemy soldier, there would be a lot more noise, but her instincts tell her not to move. The person stops outside her tent, and Ingrid relaxes when she realises who it is.

“Ingrid? Are you in there?” Mercedes calls. She would recognise that gentle voice anywhere. But there’s an edge to it – worry, panic. Mercedes usually doesn’t let these things rise to the surface. Ingrid is quick to open her tent flap.

“Is there a problem?”  
  
“Yes,” Mercedes breathes. “And I fear it may be a big one.”

Ingrid stuffs her feet back into her muddy boots, and grabs her travelling cloak, one of her few clean possessions. She follows Mercedes along the line of tents, and it doesn’t take her long to notice the huge trail of blood that ends right outside the tent that she knows belongs to Felix.

She had spoken to him outside it last night, urging him to be careful, because she wouldn’t be there to protect him. He shrugged her off, saying that he’s in no position to be dying just yet. But the amount of blood that Ingrid can see suggests the opposite.

“He won’t let anyone in,” Mercedes says, resting a hand on Ingrid’s shoulder. “Whatever’s happened to him, he need urgent medical attention.”

The cleric passes a bag of supplies across to the Pegasus knight. She barely has any clue what to do with them, but as Mercedes backs away in the direction of the medical tent, Ingrid understands that Felix’s life rests in her hands.

“Felix?” She calls gently, trying not to scare him off. “It’s me. Can I come in?”  
  
“Go away,” comes the response, followed by a sharp hiss of pain.

“You’re injured Felix. You need help.”  
  
“I need nothing from you, or anyone else.”

His voice is muffled from behind the tent flaps, but Ingrid can still tell he’s in significant pain. Why is so frustrating? Why won’t he accept her help? She kicks the ground to take some of that frustration out.  
  
“You better let me in. I can help.”  
  
“Ingrid, fuck off!” He yells. Ingrid loses her temper.

“Felix Hugo Fraldarius, I am your _wife_! Now let me in or so help me you’ll be dead for an entirely different reason!”

There’s silence from his tent after that. Either he’s died or he’s conceded. Ingrid takes this as her invitation to enter, and sighs upon the sight that she sees in front of her.

Felix sits hunched over on the ground, his hands pressed into his stomach. There’s blood everywhere, and almost more worryingly than that, Felix is crying. He’s had the sense to take his shirt off at least, but hasn’t done anything to stop the bleeding other than press his hands against it.

“Lie down,” Ingrid commands. For the first time in his life, Felix complies.

There’s a large stab wound on his stomach, of which blood keeps pouring out of. Ingrid drops to her knees beside him, and wills her brain to think. She finds his army uniform, and lifts the inner most layer, inspects it for blood, and then rips one sleeve off, pressing it to the wound.

“Sword?”  
  
“Lance.”  
  
He’s pale and sweating – not a good sign. Ingrid is not a healer, not a single healing spell existing in her arsenal of skills. But first aid is something that she’s got some experience in, and she can at least attempt to stop the bleeding.

The kit that Mercedes gave her helps – there’s a pot of ointment that she can rub onto the wound to clean it. It had Felix writhing against her in a most unpleasant way, his fingernails digging into her upper arm, forearm, thigh, waist, wherever he can get a grip on her. She winces, but shakes the pain off, knowing that Felix’s pain is more important. More pressing, in this moment of total weakness for him.

“He’s dead,” Felix breathes out, his head falling back to hit the ground. He brings an arm up to cover his eyes, his teeth gritted.

“Who’s dead?” She asks carefully. As far as she was aware, everyone had made it back to camp.

“My father.”

Ingrid gasps, and almost drops the little pot of ointment into his wound. Her eyes sting with tears that she can’t yet cry – she has to be here for Felix. Never in her life has she seen him this vulnerable. She grits her teeth, allows her grief to pass over her temporarily, and focuses once more on the problem at hand.

“Oh, Felix.”  
  
“You don’t need to say anything. He’s gone.”  
  
“I’m sorry, I-“  
  
“ _You_ have nothing to be sorry about. It’s the boar’s fault. He… the old man saved him.”  
  
He reaches blindly for Ingrid, his fingers finding her hand. He squeezes tightly, this time nothing to do with the pain that she was causing him. Felix hasn’t cried in years, not in front of anyone at least, and Ingrid really isn’t sure how she’s supposed to deal with that. Instead, she just holds his hand, and allows both of them time to breathe. It’s been a long day.

“Just because he’s dead, doesn’t mean you have to be,” she says eventually, when the ointment has dried on his stomach and he’s not squeezing her hand as hard. She gently squeezes his hand, and attempts to smile at him when he opens his eyes. “Don’t you dare leave me to be the last Fraldarius.”

“You should get a healer. You’re doing a shit job.”

That’s the Felix she knows and loves. The saying enters her head without much thought, and then she finds her breath hitching at the words. Felix takes this as a sign that she’s offended by his words and mumbles something that she assumes is an apology. Ingrid gets up stiffly, sticking her head around the tent to see if anyone is about.

The medical tent is in the next row. She’s covered in blood, Ingrid realises with a start, some from the floor of Felix’s tent and some directly from his wound. Thankfully, Mercedes is still there, and is quick to follow Ingrid back to where Felix lies, bringing with her a basin of hot water that she’s been keeping over a small fire.

Ingrid holds the tent flap open for Mercedes, and rushes to Felix’s side as Mercedes assesses the situation. Felix looks over at Ingrid faintly, and Ingrid is quick to take his hand, not liking how vague he looks behind his eyes.

“Oh dear, Felix, you’ve lost a lot of blood,” Mercedes says, dipping a fresh cloth in the water to wipe away the blood that has began to encrust on Felix’s abdomen. Then she lays her hands flat on his stomach, and allows green light to flow across his body. Felix relaxes a little, loosening his grip on Ingrid.

Mercedes hums as she rubs ointment onto the wound, and then wraps Felix’s abdomen in bandages. Eventually, she stands, dusting off her skirts and sighing at the fact that she’s managed to get even more blood on her clothes.

“You need to rest,” Mercedes tells him firmly. “No moving, no training, nothing, until either I or Manuela clear you. Don’t coerce Annette into clearing you.”

She leaves the tent, meaning Ingrid and Felix are alone for the first time in a long time. Finally, Ingrid allows herself to cry. Rodrigue is gone, and Felix clinging onto life on the floor of his tent in a pool of his own blood.. He may not have realised it yet, but Felix is now the new Duke Fraldarius – probably the youngest in history, having only turned twenty-three two months ago.

Ingrid can’t point this out to him. It would be cruel, when he’s already suffered so much today. She’s not even sure how he found out that Rodrigue died – she hadn’t heard word of it at all. Perhaps he had been there himself, had seen his own father fall.

Felix’s hand, clammy and cold, reaches up to her face, the back of his fingers rubbing her tears away. For a second, she leans into his touch, then thinks better of it, taking his hand and placing it gently back on his stomach.

“Do you need anything?” She asks. “Food, water?”  
  
“Water. I need to replace all that blood.”

“Okay,” Ingrid tells him quietly, detaching herself from him. “I’ll be back in a moment. Don’t move.”

She’s exhausted herself, but a strange sense of duty binds her to Felix. Water and food aren’t hard to come by. There are tin cups in the mess hall, containers of water hauled here on the back of a wagon. The stew from earlier lies in its pot still, likely cold by now. Felix won’t care, though. She doubts he’s had anything to eat all day.

Adrenaline keeps her going as she makes her way back to the tent. It’s been almost two hours since she first left her own tent – most of her time spent just waiting for bleeding to stop or ointment to dry or Felix to stop crying. He looks glad to see her when she returns again. She manages to get him propped up on his elbows enough to take a few sips of water.

“I brought stew,” she mumbles feebly. “I don’t know if you’re up to eating, and it’s probably cold, but…”  
  
“I’ll give it a go.”

She has to feed him – it’s very odd action that she can never remember doing before. He looks as uncomfortable as she feels, looking away as he chews. He only manages a few forkfuls before he shakes his head and Ingrid sets the bowl on the ground.

“You need some sleep,” Ingrid says. “Let’s sit you up, we’ll try to wash the rest of the blood off you.”

Felix, for once, doesn’t complain. Mercedes’s cloth from earlier lies in the bowl of water, which too has gone cold in the chill of the night. Ingrid dips the cloth in the water, and washes his back, his sides, his hands. Felix sits very still and lets her work. She dries him off with her own sleeve, having no towel at hand.

He’s not strong enough to stand, even though his wound has been healed. Ingrid helps him shuffle over to his bedroll, lays a blanket over him, and takes a few steps away. Felix’s dark eyes look up at her, his mouth slightly opened. Ingrid pauses.

“Ingrid,” he says weakly. “Stay?”

Ingrid sighs. She’s in no position to say no. Not when she could collapse before she makes it back to her own tent. Not when Felix has received such a life-threatening wound. Not when his father has just died.

“There’s not enough blanket,” she says, a pathetic excuse.

“It’ll be fine. You can keep me warm.”  
  
He’s completely serious, she realises. He should be in a proper bed in the infirmary, and yet he’s on the floor of his tent. Ingrid takes her boots off, setting them neatly beside the bed roll. Carefully, she peels back the corner of the blanket, and lies down beside Felix. She rearranges the blanket better over them, and turns to face him. He’s looking across at her, a little smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.

“Thank you.”  
  
“No problem.”

He grimaces as he gets himself comfortable. It’s hard for both of them to sleep on the same mat, only just big enough for one person. Felix lies on his back, Ingrid on her side, facing him. When she’s certain he’s asleep, Ingrid wiggles a little closer, which has more to do with making herself comfortable than it has anything to do with him. She’s treated to a rare contented sigh from him, and finds herself smiling as exhaustion claims her.

* * *

“Felix?” Calls a voice from outside the tent, stirring Ingrid out of her slumber. For a moment, she’s confused as to why she’s so _warm_ , and then she realises that her hand is on Felix’s bare chest, right over Felix’s beating heart. That’s a good sign, she thinks as she sits upright. He’s still alive.

The man in question sits up, and winces in pain as he does so before abruptly crashing against the mattress. Ingrid peels the blanket back to inspect his wound – the bandages are staining red.

“Shit,” he hisses, his hand going to the wound where he can feel the blood coming through.

“Stay still,” Ingrid murmurs.

The first aid kit still sits nearby. Ingrid grabs it as Felix fights with the bandages while simultaneously trying not to move. She helps him get them off, wincing at the sight. The wound had healed last night, but maybe moving in his sleep had caused it to reopen. She clumps up the used bandages, finding a clean section, and presses them against the wound. He hisses again, bunching up the blanket in his grip.

“Felix?” Calls the voice from outside again.

“Shh,” Ingrid soothes. “Look at me.”  
  
And he does, amber eyes meeting her emerald. And Felix’s left hand comes up to her shoulder to steady himself. And in that moment, Ingrid is certain of only one thing – despite her best efforts, she has fallen in love with Felix. Funny, in a way, how she only has eyes for Fraldarius men. Maybe it’s the dark and brooding thing that gets her. Either way, now is not the most opportune time to realise this fully, especially when the tent flap opens and Sylvain walks in.

“Whoa, okay.”

Ingrid whips her head around to him, fixing him with her sternest stare. Sylvain backs off a bit, but makes no move to leave the tent.

“I just wanted to see how Felix was after yesterday, and I find him shirtless and holding onto you and you hovering over him! What was I supposed to think?”  
  
“You should think that your friend is on the brink of death,” Ingrid snaps.

“Oh, shit. What happened?”

“Stupid cavalier stabbed me with a lance,” Felix grumbles, glaring at Sylvain over Ingrid’s shoulder. “And another stupid cavalier is going to get stabbed if he doesn’t shut the fuck up.”

“Go get breakfast or something,” Ingrid says. “For both of us. He hasn’t eaten much.”

Sylvain leaves. Ingrid turns her attention back to Felix, who sighs deeply. Ingrid gently removes the bandages – he’s not bleeding anymore. But now that that’s dealt with, Ingrid has time to be distracted by his chest. Last night she was too exhausted, too worried to pay much attention to his form. But now she can see every muscle in his chest, every scar that litters his body.

It’s strange to see him like this, almost completely helpless. Ingrid rubs more of the ointment on the wound. The cloth from last night is still there, but now that light streams into the tent from the open flap, she can see that the water is stained red and is in no condition to be used. Instead, she waits on the ointment drying, lacing her fingers through Felix’s own. He squeezes her hand gratefully.

“Sorry for asking you to stay.”  
  
“It’s okay. A good idea, now that we’re in this position.”

“It was selfish.”  
  
“Not at all. You… went through a lot yesterday.”

Felix sighs. Clearly that wasn’t exactly the right thing to say. But his hand remains in hers, anchoring him to this world. She won’t let him get away that easily. Ingrid moves some of his hair out of his eyes, and takes great interest in how smooth his face looks when it’s not marred with his near permanent scowl. He’s pretty, she thinks, and does everything in her power to ensure her face doesn’t let him know what she’s thinking.

Sylvain has managed to make himself useful, it turns out, as he returns with two plates of hot breakfast and Mercedes in tow. Ingrid gets out of the way while Mercedes kneels on the edge of the bed roll. Sylvain silently passes her a plate. She almost feels too nervous to eat.

“We’re leaving today,” Mercedes explains quietly, mostly to Felix, but loud enough that Ingrid and Sylvain can also hear every word. “You’ll be put into the medical wagon, but I can’t guarantee it’ll be a painless journey.”

Her hands glow green once again as she heals him. Ingrid bites her lip in anticipation as she watches, before Sylvain elbows her in the side and points towards her as yet uneaten breakfast.

“What about…” Felix asks before he trails off, not wanting to finish the sentence.

“He’s on his way back to the monastery, flanked by Seteth and the Professor. He’s in good hands,” Mercedes explains.

“Right.”

Mercedes gives Ingrid and Sylvain a pointed look, and the two of them take off. It’s likely that she wants to give Felix a proper look over now that it’s daylight. Ingrid can’t even tell what time it is – the lack of monastery bells has completely thrown her sense of time. And not sleeping in her own tent didn’t help either.

“So what _were_ you doing?” Sylvain asks. “I didn’t see you up and about this morning, and the Ingrid I know would never go to see Felix before she had breakfast.”  
  
“I stayed with him last night. He asked me to.”  
  
“Ooh, really?”  
  
“Sylvain, he nearly _died_. I assume you didn’t see the dried blood on the ground, but there was a lot of it. See all this?” She says, kicking a pebble in their path. “All Felix’s. He didn’t want any help.” Sylvain sucks in a breath.

“Didn’t realise he took the news so badly.”

“Seems so.”

“Nice of you to do that for him then.”

“Yeah.”

Ingrid neglects to mention the fact that she woke up so close to him, the look in his eyes this morning, or the way he wiped her tears away last night. She doesn’t bring up the strain in his voice when he asked her to stay, when he _begged_ her to stay close to him. These aren’t usual Felix traits, not at all.

And Ingrid doesn’t tell Sylvain that she’s in love with Felix.

* * *

Halfway through the Harpstring Moon, Duke Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius is laid to rest in the cemetery of Garreg Mach.

Traditionally, the cemetery in Fraldarius Manor is the last resting place of the family. But it’s too dangerous to make the journey there currently, and the army doesn’t have the time or resources to spare. Byleth approached Felix with the idea, and he agreed quietly, as long as he didn’t have to make any of the arrangements. As much as he wouldn’t admit it to anyone, Felix was struggling to come to terms with the loss.

Byleth and Seteth make the preparations in his stead. There’s not enough food for a feast in Rodrigue’s honour, but Byleth makes sure to find a supply of Felix’s favourite tea, a cup for everyone in the tea gardens after the ceremony. Felix takes to the training grounds, which is where Ingrid finds him.

He moves faster than usual, more frantic, more reckless. Ingrid is almost certain that he hasn’t been cleared for this level of training – he had already put up a fight about whispers of him not being allowed on the battlefield at the end of the month. He stops in his tracks, however, when he spots Ingrid hovering in the doorway, dressed in her usual tunic and trousers, armour foregone for the day.

Felix’s chest heaves, his grip on his sword tightening. He stares directly at Ingrid, and she can feel his gaze, strong and piercing even from a distance. The sword is lowered, his hair untied and retied, and he takes a few steps closer to her.

“Don’t tell Mercedes.”  
  
“I won’t,” Ingrid says. That’s only the truth if Felix behaves himself. “It’s almost time. I had to come and find you.”  
  
“Don’t really look like you’re dressed for a funeral.”  
  
“I don’t have any black clothes. Didn’t think he’d care.”  
  
“He’s not here to care. Do what you want.”

Felix strides past her, but Ingrid reaches out to grab his wrist, stopping him. Slowly, he turns around to her, an odd expression on his face.

“You’re here to care.”

“And I said do what you want.”

But his voice cracks a little, and he casts his gaze to the ground in shame. Ingrid lets go of him, and yet he doesn’t go anywhere.

“Are you going to change? Or wash, or…”  
  
“I’m not going.”  
  
“Felix…”  
  
“Don’t see the point. I hate sitting in that stupid cathedral.”

“We’ll sit at the back.”  
  
“We?”  
  
“I’ll stand with you Felix. I always will. I promised to, last summer. As did you.” He tuts at that, but relents.

“Let me change my shirt.”  
  
They walk in silence back to the dorms, up the stairs and along the corridor. Ingrid doesn’t trust him to bail on such an important event, so she keeps a close eye on him. He leaves the door to his room open, peeling one shirt off and replacing it with another. His hands hover over his tunic and cape – Fraldarius teal.

It’s much too warm to be wearing them, really, designed more for the frigid winters the clothes come from. But Felix puts them on anyway, fiddling with the buckles, his hands shaking. Ingrid sighs, and steps towards him, brushing his hands out of the way as she does the buckles up in his stead.

When she’s done she takes a step back, and regards Felix as a whole. He looks older these days, maybe due to the pressure of his new role, even if he hasn’t formally taken it yet. He raises his head to her, and in one swift movement, Ingrid finds him pressed against her, face buried in her shoulder, arms around her waist.

If she thinks back, Ingrid can just about recall having hugged Felix once or twice before. He was a cry-baby as a child, clingy, but never touchy. The cry-baby aspect disappeared as he grew. After Glenn died, the clinginess all but disappeared. And he never became touchy. So when he hugs her now, it comes with an element of surprise that Ingrid is quick to react to.

She returns his embrace, awkward as it may be. She runs her hand along his back, soothing him as he trembles against her. They’re late already, Ingrid knows, but this seems more important than a funeral Felix doesn’t want to go to.

They walk to the cathedral together, Galatea green and Fraldarius teal, a united front. The funeral has already begun as they slip through the doors, but no one looks around at the creak. They sit in the back pew, and listen to Seteth give the traditional Faerghus funeral rites. Byleth sits in the front, Dimitri by her side, and Sylvain sits on the other side of the aisle. All people who will miss Rodrigue, but not quite as much as the man who sits at the back of the church.

Ingrid pays rapt attention throughout, until she feels Felix tap her on the knee. She looks round to him, only to find him staring forward. Her eyes flicker down to his hand, creeping ever closer to her own. She makes the first move, the first proper move, and entwines their fingers, anchoring Felix to her once again.

As the ceremony ends and the gathered crowd begins to make a move, Felix rushes out of the cathedral, dragging Ingrid behind him. They make their way across the bridge, hand in hand, towards the cemetery. Ingrid doesn’t question his behaviour – Felix is erratic at the best of times, and this is certainly not the best of times.

They stand together once more, hand in hand, towards the back of the cemetery. Slowly the Blue Lions fill in, glancing in their direction but not saying a word. Dorothea nods her head. Annette goes to open her mouth, but thinks better of it. For the first time since his return, Dedue leaves Dimitri’s side, and stands a few meters away from Felix, inclining his head in respect.

Byleth conducts this part of the ceremony. Dimitri and Sylvain carry the coffin, helped by some of the monks. That should be Felix’s job, Ingrid understands. As does he, presumably, because his grip on her hand becomes tighter. Byleth says some nice, flowery things and Rodrigue is lowered into the grave. Seteth puts some soil over him, and that’s that.

No one bothers to hang around, aside from the professor. Dedue nods politely as he takes his leave. Dimitri hurries off, and Felix knows that he’ll come back later to pay his respects privately. Byleth moves across to her own father’s gravestone. Ingrid and Felix stay rooted to the ground.

“Do you want to go closer?” Ingrid offers after the professor has left the cemetery.

“Yes and no.”  
  
“We can come back another time. Or I can leave and you can go yourself.”  
  
“I think… I’d like that. If you don’t mind.”  
  
“Of course not.”

Ingrid lets go of his hand, and pats him gently on the arm as she leaves. She waits at the top of the stairs, just to check that he doesn’t do anything stupid like throw himself off the edge into the forest. But he doesn’t, merely stopping in front of Rodrigue’s grave and then falling to his knees.

Ingrid turns her back, and lets Felix have this private moment.


	4. In Sickness and In Health

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the 'pining' prompt, in which Felix contemplates divorcing Ingrid because he loves her too much.

The beds in the Imperial Palace are incredibly soft. Unnecessarily so, Felix would argue. But they’re a good place to rest your head after a day of battle and the longest feast that Enbarr has seen in a long time. Each bed is filled with someone, or more than one someone, exhausted after an age of war.

Felix doesn’t remember much about last night. There was a lot of alcohol involved. He remembers Sylvain flirting with every woman he set his eyes on, he remembers Byleth sneaking off early, he remembers Dimitri standing on the balcony all by himself, sullen and quiet. He remembers stumbling back to his room, and tucking himself in under an impossible amount of blankets.

At least he’s here alone, he thinks to himself as he stretches. The sun is at its peak – it’s probably afternoon. Scratch that first thought, he’s not alone. There’s no one in his bed, but Flayn is curled up on the floor at the foot of the bed, a blanket tossed haphazardly over her sleeping frame. For a moment, Felix panics. There was a lot of drinking last night. But Flayn is fully dressed and so is he, and when she stirs, she looks quite happy.

“Why are you here?” He demands before the girl has even a moment to consider saying good morning.

“Last night Sylvain was very inappropriate due to the large quantities of rum he consumed,” Flayn says wisely. That sounds true, at least. “I was trying to go to bed, and found myself very much far away from anyone I recognised. Sylvain was nearby and I felt unsafe and you told me I could stay in here. I thought it made most sense to sleep in the room of a married man. I’d be safest that way.”  
  
She does have a point, on one hand. Felix pinches the bridge of his nose – thankfully he’s escaped a hangover, and can think somewhat clearly.

“The entire reason you _don’t_ go into rooms of married men is so you don’t cause a scandal,” he points out to her. Flayn’s mouth forms an o.

“I suppose that makes sense. But will Ingrid care? After all, I slept on the floor, and have the carpet burn on my arms to show for it.”  
  
“She won’t,” Felix answers quickly.

And neither does he. She could have truly bedded someone last night, and he wouldn’t care. It’s not his business. Besides, it was part of the arrangement – if one of them found someone else, that would be fine. If Ingrid had slept with someone else, Felix would shrug his shoulders and they’d move on one way or another.

A little part of him burns at the thought. Ingrid is his wife, and while she has his full permission to go round falling in love with whoever she wants, he’d at least like a heads up before she destroys their wedding vows less than a year in. He twists the ring on his finger absentmindedly – why is he even still wearing the thing?

His issue has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he loves Ingrid with every fibre of his being, and is trapped in a terrible situation where she is now the wife of the second most powerful man in Faerghus when that’s not what she signed up for, not yet at least. And every day he’ll have to see Ingrid, and every day he’ll know that she’ll never love him back.

Felix leaves Flayn on the floor of the borrowed bedroom, and sets off in search of anyone who will not make him want to tear all his hair out. First, he spots Dimitri at the bottom of the stairs, who gives him a jovial wave good morning. Felix keeps walking. Dedue is not too far away, and for a moment Felix considers stopping. But that means a conversation with Dimitri too, and so he moves on.

His brain suggests the kitchen – or is it his stomach? He has no idea where the kitchens of the Imperial Palace are. His mind vaguely remembers where the party was held last night, and retraces his steps, assuming the kitchen must be in the vicinity.

He does eventually find the room, and almost collides with Annette on his way in. She wasn’t exiting, she’s quick to explain, just falling over. He can’t find it in himself to care one way or the other, so just nods as he makes his way through the kitchen. Both Annette and Lysithea are here, he notes, but so is the person that he’s actually looking for.

“Good morning,” Mercedes greets, setting a bowl of porridge beside him. “Plain, just how you like it.”  
  
“Thanks.”

“I’m working on a lunch before we head back to Garreg Mach, but I saved a portion for you. I could just tell that you’d be in here.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”  
  
“Sylvain was annoying you a lot last night. Ingrid too. You both ended up storming off in opposite directions,” Mercedes tells him, keeping her eyes on her pot of lunch.

“That doesn’t sound good either.”

“No,” she hums. “I suppose not.”

“Any idea what he was saying? I had Flayn on the floor of my room this morning – he was annoying her too.”  
  
“Yes,” Mercedes says with a grimace. “He’s an awful pain, isn’t he? He can be so sweet though, when-“  
  
“Just get on with it,” Felix says, gritting his teeth. He really doesn’t want to know how that sentence ends.

“Well for a start, I saw Flayn go into your room. I was along the corridor a little, just nipping out to see what all the commotion was about. So you’re safe from a… scandal point of view.”  
  
“Thanks, I guess.”  
  
“Anyway, Sylvain was saying a lot about… the marital bed.”

Suddenly Felix’s porridge is very interesting. He stirs the oats around, avoiding Mercedes’s gaze and pretending that he doesn’t hear her little titter. He and Ingrid have been avoiding the whole topic after the first conversation they had about it. Once the war is over, they had said. Felix wonders if Sylvain had perhaps gotten wind of this, and made some snide comments about it. He dreads to think.

“Embarrassed?” Mercedes asks, setting her spoon down and regarding Felix with a particularly sad look in her eyes.  
  
“I don’t want to talk about it.”  
  
“I know all too well the horrors of arranged marriage, though I never entered into one myself, thank the goddess. If you and Ingrid are never ready to take that step, no one will hold it against you.”  
  
“The Fraldarius line dies with me, then. I owe it… to my father… to make sure that doesn’t happen. I don’t want to meet him in the afterlife and have him berate me for some such nonsense.”

“Well. Just make sure you’re both comfortable with the timing then. I offer no further advice than that.”  
  
“Thanks?”  
  
“You’re welcome!”

* * *

It’s onward from Enbarr; to Garreg Mach and then to Fhirdiad. And then to Fraldarius, Felix realises with a pit in his stomach. He hasn’t been there since the night he escaped on a lone horse, leaving his father and their servants behind. Now, only one of those things remains in the Fraldarius Manor.

He’s been contemplating the whole situation for the last while. In truth, he doesn’t want to go back. He’d much rather just ride this horse off into the sunset somewhere and never look back. But duty calls, as it so often does, and Felix writes a letter to tell his staff that he’ll be returning by the end of the moon.

It’s only the start of the moon now, he realises with a start. There’s a lot to be done before he can truly go back home. Half of the issue, if not more, resides in the shape of one Ingrid Galatea. Ingrid Fraldarius, he corrects himself, though it sounds strange in his mind and even stranger when he says it aloud.

She’ll never be a Fraldarius. No matter how much Ingrid may come to care for the land she’ll reside in, her heart will be in Galatea until she dies. Felix has come to terms with that. In fact, he never really needed to – that was a simple fact. Their marriage had one true purpose, higher than either of them as individuals. They would save Galatea.

It’s the top of his agenda when he gets back to Fraldarius. They’ll set the saving of Galatea in motion, together. He hasn’t told her about this, and maybe she would take more kindly to him if he did. They haven’t really been speaking these last few weeks. Maybe it’s the pressure of the war, or maybe he put his foot in his mouth again. But Felix knows one thing with absolute certainty – he misses Ingrid.

On the steps of the Imperial Palace the troops gather, waiting to be sent home. Dimitri and Dedue go first, with Rhea and Byleth close behind. Then half the cavalry, and the Pegasus battalion belonging to Ingrid. Felix watches her go from the steps, blonde hair fluttering in the wind. It’s a little longer now, and looks better now that the choppy ends have grown out. She doesn’t turn back, not that Felix was expecting her to, and he feels a pang in his chest.

Beside him comes the snort of derision from Lysithea that he’s gotten so used to over the years. He glares down at her. Felix doesn’t have the heart to ask her what on earth that sound means, and he doesn’t want to find out either. He knows it’s a derogatory sound either way, and when the next set of wagons pulls up in front of the palace, Felix makes sure that he doesn’t end up sharing with her.

Instead, he ends up with Annette. She says she’s going to sleep – after the displays of magic he saw yesterday, he’s not surprised. What does surprise him is the fact that she’s not sharing with Lysithea – maybe they were fighting or something this morning. Felix doesn’t care enough to ask.

The other half of the cavalry make up the back of their cortege for a week-long journey back to Garreg Mach. Felix can hardly think of anything worse, and just hopes that on one of their many stops Annette and Lysithea make up so he can maybe have the carriage to himself.

To her credit, Annette is true to her word and is asleep most of the time, tucked in under a little knitted blanket that can only have been made by Mercedes. Felix stares at the road. It’s not a very interesting journey, and he only has one sword with him, which leaves him not much to maintain. He ends up joining Annette for her naps.

On the third day of the trip Annette and Lysithea _do_ make up. Felix doesn’t even hear this from the girl herself, just spots the two of them holding hands at the edge of their makeshift camp. Annette swaps to Lysithea’s wagon, and Felix thinks he’ll finally get some peace. But the alternative to Annette is so much worse.

Dorothea’s filter has gone over the years. On one hand, Felix doesn’t blame her – it sounds like she’s put up with a lot, including fighting in a war against her home country. But that doesn’t mean she has to be so _rude_ to him, entirely unprompted. Within ten minutes of her changing wagons, she starts to rant about how Ingrid doesn’t deserve a man like him. Felix is too tired to argue with her, and pretends to be asleep. Eventually she gives up.

When they return to Garreg Mach, Felix practically runs out of the wagon, desperate to talk to someone else, anyone else, after four and a half days stuck with Dorothea. He walks aimlessly, deciding that ‘anyone else’ is much too broad a category, and finds himself on the first floor of the main building, hovering outside the infirmary door. Dimitri lies on the bed, staring at the ceiling, Dedue nowhere to be seen.

“Felix?” The king asks, spotting his old friend hiding just out of sight. Carefully, Felix takes a single step into the room, then another, and leans against the wall.

“Out of commission?”  
  
“Shoulder,” Dimitri explains. “Dagger.”  
  
“Stupid idea to give girls a dagger.”  
  
“Some would like it, but it didn’t quite have the intended effect.”

Silence hangs between them, heavy and thick. There are some things Felix has never gotten to say to Dimitri, a long list of complaints about everything that he could possibly think of. But now, Felix can’t bring himself to say any of them. Dimitri looks so sad and helpless in that infirmary bed, even if the blanket doesn’t quite reach his toes.

“Felix.”

“What?”  
  
“Are you going to become Duke?”  
  
“Suppose.”  
  
“I’d like you to. I want you as my right hand.”  
  
“I’m not going to die for you.”  
  
“I don’t want you to. I want you to live for me. Besides, there are people in your life worth protecting more than me.”

“Guess I’ll be your stupid Duke then.”

“Great,” Dimitri says with what Felix assumes is supposed to be a grin. “I’ll add you to my list of honours.”

Felix doesn’t really want to be honoured. Felix wants to go home.

* * *

For all the destruction that occurred in Fhirdiad a few months ago, the city now stands strong. The streets are bustling with people as the army’s carriages make their way through, delivering their King home. Felix looks out the window with a scowl.

The people of the Kingdom’s capital are happy to see them, but Felix supposes they mostly just happy not to be living under the Empire’s thumb. Cornelia caused unimaginable damage to the city, not just physically, but mentally. The metal carcasses of her Titanus lie strewn across the city still, unmoving from where they fell. Felix imagines that this is likely one of Dimitri’s first tasks.

There will be much feasting tonight, and tomorrow, and likely the day after that. There’s no plan to these celebrations – five and a half years of war are over, and the whole of Fódlan is shaking with nervous energy, waiting in anticipation of what will happen next. But each individual house has celebrated the end of the war, and it’s only right that everyone else does too.

They’re joined in the palace by the leaders of the other noble houses. Felix grimaces when he sees Count Galatea and Margrave Gautier conversing in the hallway. They give him a strange look – compassion, perhaps, if he’s feeling optimistic. Disdain, if he’s feeling realistic. Disgust might be pessimistic, but he also thinks that it’s a real possibility.

“Felix,” Count Galatea says. “Good to see you survived in one piece.”

Felix bites his tongue. It’s alright for them to say such things when they never went to war themselves. They don’t know about the night that he almost bled to death, the anguish of losing his only remaining family member on a battlefield, the nightmares that keep him up most of the week.

“Yes,” he says instead.

“Have you seen my daughter?”  
  
“Not since we got here.”

Count Galatea’s eyebrows furrow. He gives the Margrave a look, and takes off in the direction of the arriving troops. Felix has never been a fan of Margrave Gautier, and doesn’t appreciate the look he gives him, so he stalks away in search of his room. In a few hours, he’ll outrank both of them, and for the first time, Felix feels rather smug about his upcoming promotion.

The Grand Hall in Fhirdiad’s Palace is rarely used. The ballroom is more often used for special events, and is set up for tonight’s festivities. But Felix can’t help but feel a little intimidated as he walks into the room, following in the procession of people to be honoured. There’s so many of them, and Dimitri still hasn’t fully healed from his injuries, so the whole ceremony has been designed to be as efficient as possible.

Ingrid stands to his left, to be honoured together. She stares straight ahead, the picture of knightliness in her full armour. Felix wears the traditional Fraldarius teal, but didn’t think far enough ahead to being honoured, so doesn’t have his fancy military uniform that he never wore. He feels rather underdressed next to her.

They’re right at the back of the line. The only other person that needs to be sworn in to a position of power is Byleth, which will be done in Garreg Mach’s cathedral in a matter of weeks. When their turn arrives, Ingrid steps up first, and kneels before Dimitri with a soft clunk of metal plate.

“Knight of the Realm, Ingrid Fraldarius,” he says, touching her shoulders with his ceremonial sword. “Duchess Fraldarius.”  
  
It feels odd to hear those words said aloud. Felix doesn’t fail to notice the way Ingrid winces at the use of her new name, how her face falls before she stands up again and faces Dimitri with that strong expression on her face. She steps aside, and her eyes finally meet his. Her gaze snaps away, and Felix steps up.

He has never felt the need to kneel in front of anyone, much less Dimitri. But he does anyway, resting his hands on one knee and bowing his head. He feels very vulnerable like this, like Dimitri will take his head off with an accidental swing of the sword. Instead, it lands lightly on his tensed shoulders.

“Duke Felix Hugo Fraldarius.”

Felix rises, no longer a soldier but a Duke, and meets Dimitri’s eyes. The king holds his hand out to him. Felix hesitates. He still holds so much resentment towards this man, and shaking his hand is the last thing he wants to do really. But he takes his hand – it’s time to move on. The Faerghus that Felix hates so much is left in the past, and together, they’ll move forwards into a new era.

* * *

Dinner is a cheerful affair. Once again, Felix is abandoned by his wife, and spends the dinner with Sylvain and his father. It is not a pleasant experience for the three of them, but for everyone else the night is filled with drink and food and merriment. The company is pleasant for them, and the promise of a tomorrow not filled with the horrors of war keeps the wine flowing.

After the meal they retire to the ballroom. Somehow, this is worse. Felix has managed to avoid most balls in his life, but he is almost certain that he is being secretly chaperoned by Ashe at Dimitri’s behest. The archer constantly seems to be in his shadow. Every time Felix thinks he’s lost him, he turns his head and Ashe is a few feet away.

Eventually Felix gives up. He’ll stay a reasonable amount of time, and as soon as someone else leaves, he’ll take off too. He usually does go to bed early, so even if his demeanour suggests grumpy, it’s not out of character for him to be in bed as early as he can. He finds a seat in a corner, and folds his arms.

Ashe seems to stop caring after Felix stops trying to give him the slip. This would be an excellent time for Felix to disappear, but there are two problems. One of which is that he knows the second he steps foot into the corridor Dedue or worse, Dimitri himself, will appear and he’ll be forcibly sent back into the ball. The second problem is that Ashe is now dancing with Ingrid.

Not that he cares. Ingrid can dance with whoever she likes. The problem lies more in the fact that she changed for dinner and now wears some sort of sparkly dress. Ingrid has never been a dress person, but this thing looks a lot more comfortable than any dress Felix has ever seen her in. She’s not even all that close to Ashe, but she looks _happy_ , and that makes Felix feel odd.

The times they have danced together have been awkward. In his room back home, they refreshed themselves on simple dance steps, standing on each other’s toes both by accident and on purpose. That was fun, loathe as Felix is to admit it. He hadn’t laughed in a long time, and that day Ingrid had brightened what was an otherwise dreary life.

Their wedding was worse. Felix acutely remembers her face as they swayed in place, looking down at her. She looked… angry. Her brow was furrowed, her eyes neutral but her mouth downturned. In that moment, it had really been driven home to Felix that Ingrid would never love him.

It’s been a year now. They were too busy with the war to even say to each other that it had been so long. Felix looks down at the ring on his finger, and just feels sad. He’s not the sort of person who would ever admit that feeling, even to himself, and he feels rather stupid. When he looks up again, Ingrid has switched partners, which makes Felix feel even worse.

Now she dances with Sylvain, and the two of them seem to be laughing about something as they twirl across the floor, expertly avoiding other couples. Felix was stupid enough to imply something that Sylvain took a certain way, and now Sylvain’s eyes twinkle when he sees them together. And Sylvain was not wrong to assume what he assumed, but Felix wishes that he had never opened his mouth.

As they twirl towards him, Sylvain looks over Ingrid’s shoulder at him, a curious expression on his face. Felix has never seen this expression before, and has no idea what it could possibly mean. Instead of trying to figure it out, Felix stalks outside, pushing open a glass door and into the warm night of summer.

Inside was suffocating. Out here, he’s alone, but not weird alone like he was inside. He leans against the stone railing of the balcony, staring into the night beyond. A million thoughts race through his head, many of which concern Ingrid. On occasion his brain takes a happier turn to weapons or the training that he’ll be able to do in the training grounds he’s most comfortable with.

But Ingrid interrupts even his more pleasant thoughts. If he’s at the training grounds, she could be there too. If he’s doing weapon maintenance, she could need to repair a lance. The more Felix thinks about the actual torture of living at the Fraldarius Manor with the woman he’s been in love with for nearly as long as he can remember, the more Felix thinks that maybe the goddess is real, and she’s given him this curse.

Maybe he could divorce her quietly. She could still live in the manor – he would happily give her the whole west wing and they could live entirely separate lives. Or she could go back to Galatea with half his fortune, and do whatever with it there. He wouldn’t have to care anymore. Even at that, Felix can’t imagine a future where he isn’t invested in the goings on of the Galatea County.

The glass doors behind him open, and Felix’s head snaps round at the sound to see who would dare disturb him. But it’s Ingrid herself, hovering close to the door. She looks nervous to speak to him, something that hasn’t occurred between them ever, at least not in Felix’s memory.

“Out here brooding?” She jokes, taking a few small steps closer to where he stands.

“Something like that.”

“I… we haven’t spoken in a while.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“I’m sorry. That’s my fault. I’m just panicking about… having to go back with you to Fraldarius.”  
  
“You’re… planning on coming back?” Felix asks, somehow surprised by this.

“Of course. I told you I would. About this time last year, in fact.”  
  
“So you were thinking about it too.”  
  
“One whole year. Odd, really. It doesn’t feel that long.”  
  
“Time flies when you’re fighting in a war,” Felix tells her drily.  
  
“I know that.”

Ingrid hesitates a little, and then makes her way across the rest of the balcony to come to a rest at Felix’s side. He turns his head to her slightly and is rewarded with a smile, soft and shy – words he never would have dreamed of describing Ingrid as.

“I’m glad this is all over,” she admits, looking out into the vast expanse of the night beyond them.

“As am I. Weirdly. I thought… that as soon as it was over, I’d be itching to get back out and fight again. But I could use a break.”  
  
“I’ll remind you of that when we get home and you’re in the training grounds immediately.”  
  
“Of course I will,” Felix scoffs, “who do you take me for?”  
  
Ingrid laughs and bumps him with her hip. His heart speeds up at ‘we’ and ‘home’. Maybe things wouldn’t be so bad if Ingrid was willing to go with him. But for his own sanity, Felix needs to ask.

“When you said you were panicking… what about? I mean exactly. I want to fix the problems before they occur.”  
  
“There’s quite a few,” Ingrid says, tying her fingers in knots. “I… don’t want to sleep in the same bed as you. I mean like, not all the time at least.”  
  
“Fine. There’s a spare room beside the Duke’s room that hasn’t been used in the last generation. You can go there.”  
  
“You’re moving into the Duke’s room?” Ingrid asks quietly.

“I’m going to have it redecorated first. But yes. It took me a while to decide that.”

“Well, you go in there and I’ll go beside you. I think that’s fair.”  
  
“Anything else?”

“I want to just… do my own thing. I don’t mind eating meals together and whatnot, but I value my freedom.”

“I know. That’s fine. I’ll have Duke stuff or whatever to be doing anyway.”  
  
“Don’t ignore me, though,” Ingrid warns, and Felix feels himself smile despite himself.

“I would never.”

“And I want room far away from your quarters too. So I can just sit there and… read or something.”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
“And I want to be allowed to go to Fhirdiad whenever I’m needed.”  
  
“I can’t stop you. I think that would be treason.”

“That’s all my demands, then.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Felix relents. “I don’t… I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. _I’m_ uncomfortable. We don’t need two of us.”

“We’ll get used to it,” Ingrid says, and Felix is inclined to agree.

“Happy anniversary, then.”  
  
“Yes, quite.”

They stay there a little longer, enjoying the silence of someone else’s company. After a while, Ingrid shuffles ever closer to him and rests her head on his shoulder. Felix freezes, and feels every single one of his muscles tense. It takes a moment for his brain to react rationally, but finally he relaxes, and lets Ingrid relax there. It’s been a long year for both of them.

Eventually Ingrid retracts herself, and when Felix steals a glance at her he’s secretly pleased to note that she looks as embarrassed as he almost certainly does. She takes a step away, and faces him fully, her hand settling on his own.

“I don’t suppose you’d like to dance with me?”  
  
Felix is a terrible dancer. She knows this better than anyone. And yet she still asks. Felix isn’t sure that his heart can take it, holding Ingrid close to him. But the music comes to a faltering stop inside, and Felix knows he only has a few seconds to make his mind up. He turns Ingrid’s hand over, and laces their fingers together.

“Don’t step on my feet this time,” he tells her, earning a well-deserved eyeroll.

“Same goes for you.”

She opens the door to the ballroom; he follows close behind her. The floor is still filled with spinning couples, and Felix and Ingrid manage to join in with the newest dance largely undetected. Felix holds her at arm’s length for the first thirty seconds, doing his best to be respectful of her space.

But Ingrid pulls him closer, their bodies mere centimetres from one another. She looks quite pleased with herself, Felix notes, and he’s not sure that’s because she’s been drinking wine all evening or that she’s just had enough of him being awkward around her. Either way, Felix has no reason to complain. For these few minutes, he gets to hold the object of his affections in his arms, and allow himself to indulge in an imaginary future where this is the norm.

“Say,” Ingrid murmurs, “why did you think I wouldn’t come back to Fraldarius with you?”  
  
Felix pauses. Mostly, it was his own insecurity that he thought was driving Ingrid away from him. But it was hers, he’s come to learn. That’s quite an odd notion, when he thinks about it. Now he has to come up with a way to tell her that, without dropping himself in it. He’s not ready to tell her how he feels, especially when there’s all these people around.

“I panicked,” he tells her truthfully. “Just like you did, I suppose. This whole situation is just… weird. I don’t know what I’m doing.”  
  
“Neither do I,” Ingrid admits. “I’ve never… done anything like this before. Obviously.” She’s looking over his shoulder as she says that, and Felix is half tempted to turn around and see what she’s looking at.

“We can figure it out… together. I guess.”

“Yeah.”  
  
A small smile appears on Ingrid’s face, and Felix has to tear his gaze away from her and look over at Dimitri clapping jovially at the side of the room lest he lean down and kiss his wife.

“I’m glad that out of everyone it could have been, it was you,” Ingrid says quietly. “For a long time I thought you hated me. And it seems that that’s not the case. You’ve been kind to me, far kinder than any other man would be.”  
  
“Because I never wanted this either,” Felix reminds her. But to his mind it sound like some sort of a confession, and for a moment, he lets himself hope. “But I’m not… I’m not going to treat you like… a wife. You’re my friend, and that’s more important to me.”

“You’ve changed,” Ingrid says.

“Have I?”  
  
“For the better,” she’s quick to clarify. “You’ve grown up, I think.”  
  
“Thanks, I guess.”  
  
“It _is_ a compliment. I’m glad. Perhaps an arranged marriage is what you needed all along to become more respectful.”

“I’m going to stand on your feet,” Felix warns, and she laughs as she spins out of his grasp like all the other women. Felix is a terrible lead, but getting to watch Ingrid enjoy herself so much makes it worth the immense concentration on his part. She spins back into his grasp and he’s quick to catch her and move on to the next set of steps.

“Thank you for being honest with me,” she says.

“What do you mean?”  
  
“When you said you were panicking too. It made me feel better about myself. Like… it wasn’t just me being stupid.”  
  
“You’re not stupid.”

“That’s probably the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Ingrid jokes.

It may be a joke, but it’s probably true, Felix realises. He doesn’t want it to be true – now he wishes that he’d always been nicer to her. But as a teenager he didn’t know how to be nice, and it’s only now that he’s unlearning all those behaviours. With Ingrid by his side, maybe he’ll change even more in the years to come.

The music changes, and Felix looks out the corner of his eye to see what all the rest of the couples are doing before he makes a move. Ingrid is too fast for him though, and has moved both of his hands to the small of her back, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“What are you doing?” He hisses.

“My father is here, as you well know. As far as he knows, we’re wildly in love. So we may as well look the part.”

“Ingrid, everyone knows that… we’re only married for political reasons.”

“It’s been a year, Felix, as you rightly pointed out earlier. The only reason we haven’t been hounded for children yet is because we’ve been at war. If we look now like we… care about each other, we can put that off a little further.”  
  
“You’ve thought about this far too much,” Felix grumbles, but allows Ingrid to pull him close, readjusting his hands on her back.

They sway in place for a while, both of them secretly enjoying the experience but not daring to voice those thoughts to the other. Many of the other couples have left the dancefloor, heading to bed or chatting with others on the side lines. But Ingrid and Felix stay there in each other’s embrace, not willing to let go of this small moment of comfort that they’ve snatched.

“We should go,” Ingrid mumbles when all that remains in the room is Ashe, Dorothea, Mercedes and Sylvain, the latter of which is asleep in his chair. It takes a moment for Felix’ brain to catch up and realise that she means alone, not together, and he abruptly drops his arms from her.

“Yeah, good idea.”

Ingrid slowly unhooks her arms, but Felix catches one of her hands as it passes him, and brings his lips to the back of it in a kiss. Ingrid gasps, and he panics, dropping her hand unceremoniously. Felix turns on his heel, feeling his face and neck turn red with embarrassment at his actions. Stupid, he thinks, taking a chance like that when he’s already had so much time with Ingrid this evening.

“Felix!” She calls after him. He keeps walking. “Felix, I…”

Felix lowers his head, sticks his hands in his pockets and leaves her there on the ballroom floor.


	5. To Love and To Cherish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the 'dancing' prompt, which has at least three uses in this chapter alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There IS smut in here, I will not speak for the quality of it. If you don't want to read it just skip after Felix tells Ingrid about the letters. You can guess what happens next from this note.

They travel back from Fhirdiad together. Ingrid controls the reigns of the horse, and Felix spends most of the trip napping beside her. Their little wagon is nothing fancy, no carriage like they had at their wedding. But it’s cosy in some strange way, that makes Ingrid wonder if it’s more to do with Felix than it is to her.

Since that night at the ball, she’s felt strange around him, even more so than usual. Even a week later, the feeling of his lips burns hot into the back of her hand, a memory that she’s unlikely to forget. At the time, she had just wanted to grab him as he walked away and kiss him senseless, but she’s more sensible than that. She’s always been more sensible than that.

It’s been over a year since she made her escape from Fraldarius Manor. It looks the same to her eyes, but she knows that with a different head of house, things will change over time. Felix isn’t the sort of person that cares about aesthetics, and neither is she really, but she wonders if part of her job as duchess could be to oversee the redecoration of the exterior of the house.

“Here we are,” Felix says, hopping out of the wagon as a stable hand approaches to take it off them.

“Here we are,” she echoes.

They talked extensively about things to come, when Felix wasn’t napping at least. The house looks daunting, but in reality, it isn’t much bigger than the Galatea household, and though Felix now holds significantly more power than her father, Ingrid doesn’t feel that her life will be much different.

In a way, it helps that she and Felix are so similar. He likes to train early in the morning, while she’ll be up early to run. Even coming up the path to the front door, Ingrid’s eyes dance around the garden, trying to carve out a running path for herself. Maybe the gardeners will be funny about her running on the grass? That’s something that she’ll have to find out.

Their afternoons sound similar too – work on days when it needs done, finding other menial tasks to do when they’re not otherwise occupied. Evenings back home were spent curled up by the fire with a book, and Ingrid fully intends to carry on that tradition here.

Felix nods to the staff as he enters. All of them bow in return – this is the new Duke’s homecoming, and he seems entirely unbothered by the whole thing. Ingrid is a lot more apologetic to the staff, smiling at each and every one and making a mental note to learn their names so she’s not accidentally rude to them. Her oldest brother’s wife didn’t do that when she moved in, and Ingrid often heard whispers about how standoffish she was.

As much as Ingrid would like to just sit down for an evening meal, she’s sure it’s not ready yet, with the fact that they’ve only just returned and its mid-afternoon. Instead, she follows Felix upstairs, heading towards the east of the house. His old bedroom is one of the first doors in this corridor, but she knows they’re heading far past it.

“Library,” he states, naming rooms as they pass them. Ingrid knows this of course, having spent much time in this house as a child. “Offices. Bathroom. This is your room.”  
  
Felix finds a key from the bundle he collected from the housekeeper, and unlocks the door before pressing the key into Ingrid’s palm. Wordlessly she steps inside, a little taken aback by how nice the room is. The velvet curtains are open, shining fading sunlight into the room. The carpet is soft underfoot, a dark navy to match the rest of the house. The whole room is trimmed in gold, shiny but not garish. And on the bed there are light green cushions, just like in Galatea.

“I hope it’s okay,” Felix says, and Ingrid turns her head to him to see what she can only describe as nervousness painted on all his features.

“It’s wonderful.”

She runs a hand over a small sofa, big enough for her and one other person. She opens wardrobe doors to find all her clothes hung up, cleaned and pressed, sent ahead from home.

“I’m just next door, if you ever need me. My office is across the hallway and my bedroom to your left.”  
  
“You don’t need to sound so formal, Felix. We know each other better than that.”  
  
“I know,” he sighs. “It’s just weird. I thought we’d have another twenty years of… not being here alone.”  
  
“Me too,” Ingrid says quietly. She moves towards Felix, sets her hand on his shoulder. His face contorts into something resembling a smile.

“About your other room you wanted… I haven’t seen it in person, only described things in a letter, so I don’t know what it looks like.”  
  
“Let’s go find out.”

They walk side by side back along the corridor. The middle of the house is silent now, with all the servants back to work after greeting them. It’s a quiet day, with only the two of them to prepare for. Felix leads Ingrid into the west wing, past numerous guest rooms of varying sizes. When they pass her old room, Ingrid notices that the painting of the first Fraldarius is gone, replaced with some old man that she doesn’t recognise.

At the very end of the corridor, Felix unlocks a door, and Ingrid follows him up a spiral staircase. There’s another door at the top which Felix unlocks too, and Ingrid follows him through to a large circular room.

“This is about as far away from me as I thought you could get,” he explains, moving into the middle of the room to let Ingrid inside.

There’s a huge window on one wall, and a seat built into it, cushioned so Ingrid can sit on it. It’s rather empty aside from that and a few seats and a low table, but Ingrid doesn’t fail to notice that the Fraldarius painting has been moved in here, along with a large pile of books that she’s never seen before.

“I know you like her,” Felix explains. “It took some convincing to move her, but I think she’ll be in safe hands up here.”

“Thank you,” Ingrid says, genuinely a little overcome with emotion. “I mean it. You didn’t need to go to all this trouble for me.”  
  
“It was no trouble. I just wrote a letter, and said if they didn’t fix it, Duchess Fraldarius would be miserable all her days.”  
  
“You’re so dramatic,” she laughs, elbowing him in the side.

Ingrid pulls him into a hug, and for the first time, Felix doesn’t hesitate to return it. Not willing to test her luck, she pulls away quickly, and knows that she’ll cherish the smile on Felix’s face for a long time to come.

* * *

Life goes on as normal. They train in the mornings, individually or separately, and Felix retires to his office for most of the afternoon while Ingrid wanders around the house trying to find ways to make herself useful. So far, she’s managed to commission a painter from Fhirdiad to come down and paint their portrait next week (Felix’s request as a necessity, not something either of them want to do), and convince the housekeeper that the outside of the house really could do with a fresh coat of paint.

On occasion, she travels into town to wander around the markets and other shops. Harvest is nearly over, and as she can spare the coin, she likes to buy some handcrafted items to keep the tradespeople going over what will certainly be a hard winter to come. They decorate her tower room, not that she’ll ever tell anyone else about the existence of the room.

Duchess Fraldarius is well liked in the town, unlike her husband. That’s just because he’s grumpy, and she stays and talks to them. There aren’t many people to talk to in the house, and all their friends are too busy with the rebuilding of the country to come down to visit.

Being a knight doesn’t offer her much to do. In peacetime it’s a bit of a pointless title, Ingrid has come to notice. Even before the war broke out, there was enough uncertainty in the country for knights to have a purpose. But Ingrid hasn’t received any summons, and ultimately feels rather bored.

One afternoon, when she’s returned from taking her Pegasus out for some exercise, Ingrid finds Felix waiting for her in the entrance hall, arms folded, and eyebrows furrowed. He perks up a bit when he spots her though, jumping to his feet and nodding in the direction of the stairs. Ingrid sheds her muddy boots by the door, and follows him curiously.

As he leads her into his office, Ingrid realises that she's never actually been in there. It’s not the most interesting room – there are large dark wooden bookcases, and a heavy looking desk by the window. Felix lifts a letter from his desk, envelope torn open, and waves it at her.

“I got a letter from my uncle.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“He’s asking if you’re pregnant yet.”  
  
“I’m definitely not,” Ingrid answers, feeling her face flush. If she looks closely, she can see that Felix’s skin is tinged pink too.

“I know that. But it’s clearly a hint. Why don’t we have children yet?”  
  
“Because it takes nine months to have a child, and we’ve only been here for a month and a half,” Ingrid deadpans.

“If I tell him you said that, he’ll have a fit.”

“Why does he care so much?”  
  
“He’s worried that if we don’t have children, he’ll have to come back. He gave him his claim to nobility long ago to marry some poet from a small town on the border with the Alliance, and they have three children. In theory, if something happens to us and we have no children, Dimitri can ask him to come back as head of the household.”

“Is that likely to happen?”  
  
“Not really. More likely that we’ll die of natural causes and one of his children will have to take over. But that won’t happen if we raise at least two healthy children of our own,” Felix says, shaking the letter.

“But… I mean… we don’t even know if we can have children. It can happen to anyone, and you might not even know!”  
  
“Do you… think there might be a reason you…” Felix asks quietly, his sentence trailing off into nothing.

“I mean, as I said you might not know, but.. I’ve bled regularly for years. So I would assume not. But there’s an equal chance that you…”  
  
“Yeah, okay, I get it.”

“Tell your uncle to leave us alone.”  
  
“I’ll tell him to fuck off.”  
  
“That’s what I meant.”  
  
A silence falls between them. Felix turns away, back to his desk, tidying the letter away and closing a heavy book that Ingrid has spotted him with in the evenings a few times. In a way, Ingrid wishes she could suggest that they have sex right now and get it over with, so Felix can tell his uncle that they’re trying. But she knows Felix would never go for that.

“There are… other methods,” Ingrid suggests. “If you don’t want to have sex, we can try other things.”  
  
“Like what?” Felix asks.

“You know like… what they do with horses when the stallion doesn’t like the mares…”

“Ingrid I don’t know how to explain to you that that’s so much worse. That just reduces us both to… breeding animals, and not as people, with thoughts and feelings, and…”  
  
“Is that not what we are, Felix? Was that not the whole point of this deal from your end?” Ingrid asks, folding her arms across her chest. Felix sighs, knowing there’s not much point in arguing with her when she’s _right_.

“One year,” he says finally.

“What?”  
  
“If by this time next year we haven’t… if we aren’t having sex and at least attempting to have a child, then we’ll do it the horse method.”

“Alright,” Ingrid agrees, though it’s not ideal under any circumstances.

Felix extends his hand to her, and she shakes it.

* * *

Something changes after that conversation. It takes Ingrid a while to figure out what it is. At first, she thinks Felix is just being awkward around her because of the implication that they have to sleep together, and soon. Sometimes, he sees her coming and scarpers in the opposite direction, face red. Sometimes she doesn’t see him all day – he gets up earlier than her and sits in his office all day, requesting his meals be brought up to him.

Logically, she knows that the possibility of him actually being busy is high enough to be the truth. But he always acts so strangely around her, and she’s beginning to wonder if maybe she’s acting weirdly around him too.

On an evening when neither of them are busy (or pretending to be busy) he sits by her in the drawing room rather than in his armchair. After an hour or so of just sitting there in comfortable silence, Felix sets a hand on her knee, and looks to her. His amber eyes reveal absolutely nothing, and she wiggles away from him a little. He huffs quietly, and both of them retire not twenty minutes later.

In the middle of the Ethereal Moon, Ingrid vanishes to her attic room, finding that the fire in there manages to keep her a lot warmer than in the other room. When she gets there, she finds a large bouquet of flowers on her desk, white winter flowers that she’s almost certain are from their own garden. There’s a little card tucked inside, reading ‘F’. Felix is not the sort of man to get her flowers, and Ingrid wonders what this is all about.

It’s a nice gesture though, and she keeps the flowers watered for a week until they eventually wither. Felix catches her with them when she goes to throw them out, and she offers him a smile. He takes a few steps towards her, but thinks better of whatever he was going to do, and walks past her instead, leaving Ingrid bewildered.

“I liked the flowers,” she tells him at dinner. “A bit sad that they died, though.”  
  
“I can get you more,” he says quickly.

“Maybe wait until spring. More variety then!”

This odd behaviour continues throughout the winter. It takes a sleepless night for Ingrid to realise the full extent of what’s really been going on with Felix. Their rooms are next to each other, which has caused much discussion within their staff – why do they not sleep together. But through her walls she can hear Felix mumbling to himself, and she's absolutely certain that she can hear her name said. It doesn't take long for her to put two and two together.

She’s not sure how to feel about that. On one hand, she feels incredibly guilty for eavesdropping on what was clearly a private moment. She didn’t hear anyone else in there with him, which makes her feel somewhat better about the whole thing. On the other hand, she found the sound strangely arousing. It would’ve been so easy to just knock on his door at that moment, let herself into his room, tell him that she loved him and that she wanted this.

But feelings make things more complicated. Ingrid feels herself flush when she spots him the next day. Clearly, he’s pent up – she feels it too. But it’s only them around, and while she reckons could easily coax him into getting into bed with her, she’s not sure it would be fair to him when she’s got all these feelings for him and he doesn’t have them for her, at least as far as she’s aware.

The evenings are the worst. At least once a week Felix makes a half-hearted attempt at seducing her. It almost works most of the time, and all that’s holding Ingrid back is her own conscience. The closest they get is Felix leaning over her on the sofa, his hands on her waist. It’s obvious that he knows what he’s doing as much as she does – not much at all. His breath is hot on her neck, and if she tilted her head she could kiss him. But it’s a step that she doesn’t want to take, so she pushes him off and lets him go.

* * *

Felix Fraldarius did not think himself a patient man. It’s been six months now, and plenty of opportunities to woo his wife have come and gone. She seems to be actively avoiding him now, as he did to her earlier in the year. But he knows as well as she does that this needs to happen. He almost feels like Sylvain in some disgusting way, relentlessly pursuing her.

Maybe he should write her a letter or something, so he doesn’t have to explain in person that he’s in love with her and that he’s sorry that she was forced into this marriage when she clearly doesn’t like him back. But that makes the whole making a baby debacle even more complicated – she’s hardly just going to accept any invitation into his bed if she knows he’s in love with her.

On a particularly stormy evening, Felix leaves the training grounds, slightly drenched, a towel hanging around his neck. The front doors are open, and he peers outside in time to see a man on a horse travelling up the path. He jumps off as he reaches the door, and Felix has to hold an arm out to stop him skidding into the house.

“Post!” He exclaims, producing a bound collection of letters and pushing them into Felix’s hands.

“Urgent?”  
  
“No, just late, my apologies sir. There’s a tree down not too far from here, and my horse hates jumping. We’ve been late today all over Fraldarius. Won’t happen again.”  
  
“It’s understandable,” Felix says. He’s hardly going to chastise the man for being late in weather like that. On any other day, if he had arrived after dinner, Felix might’ve had something to say about it. “Have a safe journey home.”

After the messenger gets on his horse, Felix closes the doors. The bundle of letters is rather full, he notices, and over half of them are addressed to Ingrid in handwriting that looks similar to her own. He drops them off in his office, and heads along the west wing to Ingrid’s tower room, knocking gently on the door. Even if things have been strained between them recently, he does miss her – he misses talking normally more than anything else.

“Come in,” she calls, and he carefully opens the door.

He hovers in the doorway, so as not to disturb her. She sits in the window seat, an embroidery hoop on her knee with two dozen half-hearted stitches sewn in.

“You got some letters today. I think they might be from your family. They’re in my office if you want to come and get them.”  
  
“I’ll get them before I go to bed. Thanks, Felix.”

And that’s that. Not much of a conversation, but even just seeing her smile a little cheers him up. Part of him wants to tell her that she shouldn’t stay up too late, but instead he just closes the door behind him and disappears back to his office.

He sorts the letters into two piles – one for him and one for her. He’s not really tired enough to go to bed yet, so he rips into the first letter, and the second letter, reading their contents thoroughly until a soft knock comes on his door and he realises that his candles are nearly out.

Ingrid stands in the doorway, looking nervous. Felix takes a step back inside the room, and blows out the candles as she lifts her pile of letters. He turns on his heel to leave, and Ingrid does too, leaving them in the small doorway at the same time.

There isn’t room for both of them, and both of them are too courteous to the other to let the other go first. Ingrid’s letters are pressed into her chest, her face lit up by the moonlight streaming through the office window.

“Go,” he tells her weakly.

“You first.”

They’re close like this, oddly, closer than they have been in a while. Felix can feel her breath against his collarbone, her head angled down so as not to look at him. Is it really that bad, that she can no longer stand the sight of him? But she does look at him, biting her lip, an expression that dances somewhere between confusion and lust written all over her face.

Felix leans closer. Ingrid mirrors him. This is different than the other times – they can feel it. This isn’t forced, no hands on legs or pushing the other against a wall to get a reaction. This is breath mixing, mouths so close together that a centimetre would mean a kiss, knowing that they’re toeing the line between friendship and lovers if they take this plunge.

Ingrid is the one who moves first, her lips barely brushing across his. Felix gasps in response, chasing that feeling with his own mouth, capturing Ingrid in a proper but chaste kiss. He pulls away, leaning back against the doorframe. She looks up at him, green eyes shining in the moonlight. Carefully, she steps away and sets her letters on the desk once more, before returning to her position and pulling Felix into a proper kiss.

Any composure that either of them had goes out the window. This is a kiss nearly two years in the making. Ingrid’s hands travel up Felix’s body, settling in his hair, pulling his hair tie out in one smooth movement and throwing it onto the carpet of his office, He pushes her back onto her side of the doorframe, hands hot on her hips as his mouth works over hers.

She keens into him, breasts pressing against his chest, sending all sorts of messages to Felix’s brain. Ingrid doesn’t let up on him, her tongue making its way into his mouth, tilting her head to and fro to get the right angle on him. One of Felix’s hands leaves her waist, slowly travelling upward to tilt her chin just so.

Ingrid moans, and Felix goes weak at the knees. He breaks off from the kiss, instead kissing along her jaw, down her neck, hot and wet, moving her shirt aside a little so he can bite at the joint of her shoulder and neck. Her hands leave his hair, holding him still against her. When he’s decided he’s done with his machinations, he looks at her, eyes still shining but now half lidded and looking at him like he’s the only person in the world.

She stands on her toes to kiss him again, this time pushing him against the other side of the doorframe. Ingrid knows where this is going, and decides then and there to make the most of it. Carefully, she breaks off their kiss, and takes a step back, revelling in how quickly Felix reaches out for her again.

“Is this happening?” She asks quietly.

“If you want it to,” he answers, his voice at a similar whisper.

“Do you?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“My room or yours?”

They end up in his room – the bed is bigger, he argues. But he has her pressed up against the door before she can even think to say anything else. His hands skirt around the hem of her shirt, unsure whether to move the material or not. Eventually, she pushes him away, and pulls the shirt over her head. For a moment, Felix ogles. But she sidesteps him when he reaches out for her, sitting on the edge of his bed.

He practically rips his own shirt off, that damned black turtleneck. Ingrid’s fingers find his scars, tracing lines over each and every one. He stands above her for a minute, before he sits on the bed too, letting her hands travel over his body. She climbs on top of him, fully aware of what she’s doing to him as she presses kisses to the scar over his left pectoral, along his left arm, on the right side of his abdomen.

Then Ingrid kisses him again, her lips undoing him with every brush against his. What’s worse is that she grinds down on him, ever so slightly, letting him choke out a moan into her mouth. She’s smirking as she draws back, giving him an opportunity to grab her arms and flip her over.

Felix’s fingers find the waistband of her trousers, and his eyes flash up towards hers and wait for a nod of confirmation before he slides them down and removes them completely. He kisses up her thighs, listens to the hitch of her breath the closer he gets to her centre. He presses a kiss to her clothed sex, watches her toes curl in anticipation.

“I’ve never done this,” she says suddenly, sitting upright, pushing him away with one foot against his chest.

“Neither have I.”

“Oh. Okay.”  
  
“Am I going too fast?” He asks, placing her foot back on the bed.

“I don’t like being so naked while you’re not,” she says honestly, and while Felix raises an eyebrow, he complies with her request, tossing his own trousers and underwear into the growing pile on the floor. It’s a little embarrassing that he’s already so hard, but Ingrid doesn’t seem to mind.

Felix goes back to what he was doing before after a nod of confirmation from Ingrid. He moves her underwear aside, one finger running experimentally up and down her folds. She shudders underneath him, and he smirks, knowing that he’s doing something right. He pulls her underwear off entirely then, and uses his tongue to trace the line from before.

Ingrid’s back arches off the bed, and Felix works around those reactions. He’s a little clumsy, a little too enthusiastic, Ingrid thinks, but it’s hard to think straight when he’s in between her legs. Soon he gets bored of just using his mouth and his fingers slip inside her too. She covers her mouth with her hand. As much as she’s enjoying herself, it’s still embarrassing, somehow, but her shame melts away when Felix curls his fingers inside her.

How is he good at this? Ingrid supposes he’s friends with Sylvain, and presumably that’s where he got most of his knowledge from. But then she’s thinking about Sylvain while she’s in another man’s bed, and the man in question is literally fucking her with his fingers. Felix’s tongue swipes over her clit, and all thoughts of Sylvain leave her head.

He pulls and sucks and bites, and Ingrid is reduced to a shaking mess within minutes as her orgasm washes over her. Felix wipes his chin on the back of his hand as he surfaces from her, leaning up over her again. She leans up on her elbows, allows his kiss. It’s weird to taste herself on his lips and tongue, but what’s weirder is that she doesn’t hate the taste.

Felix’s hands reach to her back, undoing her bra and palming at her breasts as he continues to kiss her, more and more enthusiastic the better a reaction she gets from him. Now he’s close enough to her, she can reach out for his cock, stroking the length of it and smiling herself when he stutters into their kiss.

Felix draws back just enough to look her dead in the eye. He’s planning something, she’s absolutely certain, but it’s the “what” that’s the problem. What he does is more unexpected than she could’ve imagined – he takes her hand, and kisses all the fingers one by one before he threads their fingers together.

“Do you still want this?” He checks.

“Yes,” she breathes, reaching up to kiss him again. This time they’re slower, knowing that they have all the time in the world now they’ve got this far.

Ingrid shimmies down the bed, still holding Felix’s hand. She spreads her legs for him once again, looking him in the eye as way of invitation. He hesitates, but lines himself up at her entrance. In a long slow movement, Felix pushes himself in, watching Ingrid’s face intently for her reaction. She winces slightly, but then nods.

His hand goes to her waist to steady himself as he begins to thrust. He knows he’ll barely last a minute – it’s a miracle he’s lasted this long as it is, and she only touched him for a matter of seconds. But that featherlight touch isn’t something that he’s likely to forget anytime soon, he realises.

Ingrid mumbles incoherently in time to his thrusts, her free hand gripping the bedsheets. He becomes sloppy very quickly, chasing his own orgasm, not far in the horizon. Ingrid writhes in pleasure underneath him, that hand going to her clit to bring herself closer to a second climax. She wraps her legs around his body, giving both of them a better angle to work from.

“Come inside,” she says her words almost slurred. Felix pulls out, most of the way but not completely, and looks at her intently.

“Are you sure?”  
  
“Yes… yes.” She sounds certain, and Felix supposes there’s no reason for him to pull out. “Yes,” Ingrid mumbles a third time as he begins to pump into her again, muffling her cry with her hand.

“Are you close?” He murmurs, his own voice trembling.

“Mhm… Felix… please!”

And he does, finishing in a few thrusts, holding himself still as he releases inside of her. Her hand flicks across her clit a few more times, and then she climaxes too, chest heaving. He pulls out of her, feeling a strange sense of pride in himself – they did it, after years of dancing around each other. He collapses forward, hearing Ingrid laugh into his ear as he does.

“I love you,” he mumbles into her shoulder, his grip tightening in hers. These words make her breath hitch more than any of his actions tonight, but she can’t make her mouth form the same words in response. She’s not even sure she was supposed to hear what he said.

Ingrid lies still, waits for Felix to move off her. He does so with another kiss; she pushes herself up to meet him. She heads into his bathroom for a brief respite. Her reflection in the mirror barely looks like her, she thinks – her hair is tousled, her cheeks red, and the bite mark in the corner of her neck is rapidly turning into a bruise. She’s not sure if that’s a good thing or not – she supposes time will tell.

When she returns to the bedroom, Felix is still there, sitting now on the edge of the bed. Ingrid approaches him carefully, as one would a wild animal. But Felix is a wild animal no longer – when Ingrid reaches her hand to his face he leans into her touch. He kisses her palm, and Ingrid becomes acutely aware of the rain beating down on the window.

“Stay here tonight?” He asks, reaching out towards her.

“Okay,” she whispers in return.

They don’t bother to dress again, slipping under the covers and into each other’s arms. Felix’s hair splays dark around him. Ingrid’s eyes glow ever greener in the dark, boring into his own. Even under the quilt, the contact of skin on skin is pleasant, and for a moment, Ingrid finds herself wondering if there will be more.

But Felix settles, and she does too, their legs and arms tangled together. A strange experience to say the least, but one that Ingrid finds herself not minding if they have to repeat it.

“Goodnight,” she whispers when she’s certain that Felix is asleep, carefully watching the rise and fall of his chest. “I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you read the smut i apologise bc it's not something I ever write but I just wanted to give it a go haha  
> really wanted to get how awkward they are and how neither of them know what they're doing and also how Felix feels more and more... uncomfortable as it goes on, I guess. that'll come up again in the next and last chapter!


	6. Till Death Do Us Part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the 'gentle' prompt, in which Felix discusses how he feels honestly for the first time ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know the title is grim but I promise no one dies

When Felix wakes, it’s to the pleasant sound of birdsong outside his window. The sunlight is too bright – clearly they’d been too distracted last night to even contemplate closing them. He keeps his eyes shut, and feels to his left for Ingrid. The first thing he notices is the complete lack of warmth.

He manages to open his eyes then, worry settling in the pit of his stomach. Ingrid is gone. He sits upright, and relaxes – Ingrid has woken before him, and sits at the end of the bed, fully dressed. Her fingers tie a teal ribbon into her hair. Felix’s breath hitches – that’s _his_ colour. His shuffling around must disturb her – she turns to him with a smile, sun shining like a halo behind her.

“Good morning.”

“Hey.”

He moves towards her, bringing the quilt with him to cover himself. He wasn’t embarrassed last night, but now the adrenaline is gone from his system and he’s slightly ashamed of how easy it was for him to let go. Felix wants to kiss her, but she’s biting on her lip, a sure sign that something’s on her mind.

A knock comes at the door, and both of them freeze, the words on Felix’s tongue slipping away to nothingness. He’s certain he locked the door last night, and he’s in no mood to go through the whole ordeal of one of the servants seeing him naked.

“Sir?” A voice calls – the housekeeper, he recognises.

“Yes?” Felix barks in return.

“Lady Ingrid is not in her chambers, nor in the grounds, nor has she come down for breakfast. It’s unlike her to miss breakfast...”  
  
Felix casts a panicked look over to Ingrid, whose hands still on her lap, the thread she was playing with at the bottom of her shirt left alone. She shrugs her indifference to Felix, who can only roll his eyes in response. It’s perhaps not the best way to tell their staff that they spent the night together, but it’s better than nothing and they’re certain to find out at some point.

“She’s in here, don’t worry.”  
  
“Ah, alright. Sorry to bother you sir, have a good day.”

The soft sound of footsteps on carpet fade away, and Felix flops back onto the bed in embarrassment. There have been far too many emotions for him to deal with in the last twelve hours, and he really doesn’t need this on his plate too.

“I can’t believe we were found out because I didn’t have breakfast,” Ingrid laughs, pushing herself off the edge of the bed. “Well, I’m going to now because I don’t know about you but I am starving.”

“Alright. Um… see you down there, I guess.”

Ingrid nods, and disappears from his room. Even though she spent only one night in there, he laments the lack of her presence. He begrudgingly leaves the warmth of his bed, and dresses quickly, raking a brush through his hair in an attempt to flatten where Ingrid had pulled it last night.

His ponytail has gotten much longer recently, reaching to the middle of his back. He pulls it up now, glad that Ingrid wasn’t as fixated on his neck like he was hers. But at the time, that stretch of skin was enticing to her, the only thing he could get his lips on at the time.

Felix flushes red at the mere thought of last night’s activity. Ingrid seemed to have enjoyed herself though, which was his main concern. That, and being able to write a letter to his overbearing uncle delivering news of a child.

Ingrid waits for him at the breakfast table, her own meal devoured and an empty plate sitting in front of him. Felix slides into the seat opposite her wearily, offering her a weak smile. She nods her head in return, and watches as the cook gives him his own breakfast.

“We’re a little late today,” Ingrid says as a way of an apology to the cook. He doesn’t seem to care – most likely as long as they’re on time for lunch and dinner, Felix supposes.

He eats in silence, feeling even more self-conscious under her gaze. Felix slows his pace on purpose, knowing that Ingrid will pounce on him as soon as he finishes his meal. Usually if she’s finished a meal before him she disappears, so it’s odd to see her sitting so casually across from him, her legs folded, gaze somewhere in the middle distance once she moves it from him.

He gives in in time, setting his fork in the middle of his plate. Ingrid’s gaze focuses again, right on him. He’s not sure what she’s doing – thinking, perhaps, since her mouth almost opens and closes multiple times. She tries to find the words to voice what she wants to say to him, but Felix gets there first.

“Let’s go for a walk,” he suggests. There are no ears in the gardens. Ingrid breathes a sigh of relief.

“Alright.”

The rain has let up, but that doesn’t mean that the ground is dry. Ingrid usually walks on the grass, but it’s waterlogged, and she’s not really dressed for a hike through the mud. Instead, Felix steers her along the paths, aiming for the gazebo in the far corner of the garden. They walk in silence, Ingrid’s arms folded across her chest.

Felix brushes some of last night’s rain off the bench in the gazebo, and motions for Ingrid to join him. She does, sitting a few feet away from him. This is not what Felix wanted, but Ingrid looks uncomfortable, and he doesn’t want to push any boundaries further than he already has.

“Are you okay?” He asks instead. Ingrid looks surprised to hear those words, and her expression softens a little.

“Yeah. I’m fine. Just… there’s a lot to think about now, I suppose.”

“Did… did we go too far, last night?” Felix asks quietly. It’s been weighing on his mind all morning, especially after he’s seen how Ingrid has reacted.

“No, I don’t think so. Unless you think so?”  
  
“I… no, I don’t.”

“Did you mean what you said last night?” Ingrid asks quickly, her face suddenly changing into an expression that Felix isn’t sure he’s ever seen on her. Pleading, desperate, like the heroine in one of those knightly novels she loves so much. Nothing like the Ingrid he knows.

“What did I say?” He asks carefully, in truth not knowing what she’s talking about.

“When we were done, before we went to bed… you leaned into my shoulder and told me you loved me.”

“Oh.”

She wasn’t supposed to hear that. It was a spur of the moment confession that fell from his mouth without any engagement from his brain. Now he’s been caught out, and stares at Ingrid, wondering if she’ll like the answer. Yes, it’s true, and he’s not at all sure he wants her to know.

“Well?” Ingrid prompts after a moment.

“Yes,” he admits, holding his breath and waiting for Ingrid to walk away. Instead, she smiles, and scoots towards him a little. This is not the reaction that Felix expected, but not one that he minds, not when Ingrid rests her head on his shoulder and takes one of his hands.

“Strange, isn’t it? How neither of us really wanted this in the first place, but… well, look at us now.” Her eyes flicker up to his, her gaze soft and tender. “I love you, Felix.”

If it is possible to feel like you’ve been stabbed in the heart in a good way, that is how Felix feels now. He’s never really believed in the goddess, not properly anyway. But now it feels like she’s smiling down on him, a break in the rain in the form of Ingrid’s words that cut a path to the rest of their future.

He leans down to capture her lips with his own, sweeter and slower than the night before. Ingrid sighs, and when she pulls away she’s smiling, a sight that Felix knows he’ll not get sick of any time soon. She pushes herself off him, sitting upright once more and twisting to face him.

“Where… do we go from here, then?”  
  
“It’ll be hard work,” Felix murmurs. “Being with me. I’m not the easiest to get along with.”  
  
“I know that,” Ingrid says, rolling her eyes. “I’ve known you my entire life. We can move on together.”

“And I want to apologise, again, for… this whole marrying thing. I… it was selfish on my part, because I just wanted to help you, and I also have loved you for… a long time.”

Ingrid looks surprised at that. He’s embarrassed to admit it, but it’s the truth, and if they’re going to have some sort of go at a relationship, Felix feels like he should be honest with her. Ingrid stands, pulling Felix up with her, and holds his hands in hers, standing a few feet away.

“What are you doing?”

“I said to you before, but I didn’t really… tell the truth in our wedding. In intended to stick to the vows out of my sense of duty for Faerghus and House Galatea, but I didn’t mean what I said to you. You told me you lied, but… I don’t think you really did. So…”

Ingrid slips the wedding ring off her finger, and presses it into Felix’s hand. She takes his ring too, and manages a smile. She’s planning something, Felix knows, trying to calm his nerves. This feels like a separation, but she doesn’t let go of his hands.

“I want to make those vows to you again, truthfully this time.”

“I… okay.” He finds himself smiling too. It’s rather untraditional for a wedding, in the middle of a gazebo, just the two of them, no witnesses, no family, no bishop. But they’re already married by law, so what does it matter?

“To have, and to hold,” Ingrid begins, her eyes meeting his.

“To have, and to hold,” he echoes.

“For better or worse.”  
  
“For better or worse.”  
  
“For richer or poorer.”  
  
“For richer or poorer.”  
  
“In sickness, and in health.”  
  
“In sickness, and in health.” Felix raises an eyebrow at that one – Ingrid has already fulfilled this vow to him, healing that injury a year or so ago. She lets out a breathy laugh, remembering the same event, before continuing.

“To love and to cherish.”  
  
“To love and to cherish.”  
  
“Till death do us part.”  
  
“Till death do us part.”

Felix slips her ring onto her finger, and she does the same, admiring the thing even though it’s been there a long time. Felix steps forward and kisses her, dropping her hands in favour of holding her face, her own hands resting on his chest. It’s short and sweet, and both of them are grinning when they pull away.

“I love you, Ingrid. Much more than you know.”  
  
“I love you too.”

She takes his hand again and squeezes it gently, a reminder that she’s here for him, now and always. Felix didn’t really factor in Ingrid falling in love with him when he proposed marriage, nor did he imagine telling her that he loved her. But here they are, in the little wooden gazebo, Ingrid in his arms, smiling up at him.

“This is a stupid question, but I don’t know the answer. How long… how long until you know if you’re pregnant?” Felix asks, and Ingrid laughs, the sound clear as a bell.

“A few weeks, most likely. Either I’ll begin to bleed, or I won’t. We’ll know from there, I suppose.”  
  
“And if not?”  
  
“Then we try again.”

“Ah. Okay.”  
  
“Do… do you have a problem with that?” Ingrid asks, her brow furrowing.

“Um… not really. But…”  
  
“If you have something to say, I would like to hear it,” Ingrid says, taking his hand and leading him back to the bench. “I won’t be mad.”  
  
“I don’t know, it sounds stupid in my head when I think about it. I… enjoyed last night. Like… physically. But I’m not sure that I actually enjoyed it emotionally or something like that.”  
  
“Okay,” Ingrid says, nodding. “So like… that isn’t something you’d want to be doing all the time, anyway?”  
  
“Yeah. But I know we like… need to, probably, so I will because I do love you, but for me… the making out part was more fun.”

“Alright,” Ingrid nods again. “Well, if there is a next time, we can try some different stuff so you’re more comfortable.”  
  
“And it’s not a never for… fun reasons. I do think you’re very attractive and I did _want_ to sleep with you. Just not all the time, as you said. I hope that’s okay.”  
  
“Of course,” Ingrid says, smiling at him, making his worries disappear. This was part of the reason he was so hesitant to take her into his bed in the first place – the overwhelming knowledge that while the experience may be physically enjoyable, his brain would combust afterwards with some very odd feelings.

“Thank you,” Felix mumbles, resting his head on her shoulder and listening to the softness of her breathing.

* * *

Ingrid doesn’t fall pregnant. It’s easier to try again when Ingrid has moved into his room permanently anyway. Ingrid comforts him after every attempt, and in time, it becomes less awkward and more of a completely neutral experience. It’s more interesting to make sure that Ingrid is enjoying herself anyway, Felix finds, watching her writhe and moan with every movement he makes.

She begins to lead him through their sexual experiences, and he puts his trust in her hands wholeheartedly. Outside of the bedroom, he leads her through the processes of transferring funds to Galatea, and sending requests to her father on how those funds are being used to actually help the county.

This works well for a matter of months, until Ingrid doesn’t come for breakfast three days in a row, and he has to go looking for her because the cook complains about missing her. She doesn’t say anything, merely smiling at him and walking on. But he overhears her mumbling to the chef about ginger tea for nausea, and Felix begins to put two and two together.

Secretly, he’s beyond thrilled. Externally, he doesn’t allow his face to move a muscle as the rumours of Ingrid’s pregnancy begin to swirl within the staff. She hasn’t told him yet, but he’s not stupid, and neither is she. She doesn’t _need_ to.

She does anyway, though. He’s almost always in bed before her, but very rarely is he asleep when she joins him. Tonight Ingrid takes a little longer changing, and Felix uses the opportunity to see if she is already beginning to show. She turns around too fast though and he has to pretend that he was looking elsewhere.

“Stop ogling,” she grumbles, pulling out her side of the quilt and slipping underneath.

“I wasn’t,” Felix says, which is technically true by her definition of ogling.

Ingrid twists her ring, something that he’s noticed both of them do when they’re nervous. He’s always been terrible at comforting people, but tonight Felix makes the effort, and gently places one of his hands over hers. Her gaze softens, but she still doesn’t meet his eyes.

“So,” he says quietly.

“Yes,” Ingrid says, finally turning her head. “I take it you’ve heard?”  
  
“Whisperings. Nothing concrete. Nothing from you.”  
  
“I haven’t told anyone yet, but it gets quite hard to hide. I am almost certain that I’m pregnant.”  
  
“I’m glad you told me first then.”

He means it, and when Ingrid looks at him and sees the tiny smile on his face she knows that. She slides closer to him, lets him wrap his arm around her shoulders and lean against him. She’ll need that support in the coming months, but Felix knows just as well that Ingrid is hardly going to stay on bedrest until the baby arrives.

“How far along, do you think?”  
  
“I’m not sure,” Ingrid admits. “A month or two, maybe somewhere in the middle. I was hoping that maybe you could call for a cleric? I don’t know who I would write to for something like that.”  
  
“Of course. First thing in the morning.”

“Great. I just want this to go well,” Ingrid murmurs. “Motherhood is something that I never particularly wanted, but something that I always knew I would have to do. Becoming a knight was something that I wanted to do, and now that I am a knight it’s… well, I’m not really doing much. So maybe being a mother will exceed my expectations.”  
  
“I hope so,” Felix says, bringing her hand to his lips and kissing the back of her knuckles. “I’m… excited to see how they turn out.”  
  
“You’re never excited about anything,” Ingrid teases. Felix drops her hand, which only makes Ingrid laugh more.

“You should sleep.”  
  
“Don’t be one of those husbands,” Ingrid warns him.

“I have no intentions of it,” Felix huffs, shuffling downwards so his head is on the pillow. Ingrid follows suit, and for once, curls into his chest, allowing him to throw an arm over her and pull her close to him once again.

* * *

It turns out that Felix’s idea of a great cleric was just sending a letter to Mercedes. She comes though, without complaint, and coos over both of them as they welcome her into their home.

It doesn’t take the woman long to confirm that yes, Ingrid is pregnant. It’s a quick magic spell that neither of them knew existed, but Mercedes’s hands glow green as they skim over the bare skin of Ingrid’s stomach and she grins when she delivers the good news. Two months, she confirms, which was what Ingrid had suspected.

“The nausea will pass soon,” Mercedes tells Ingrid when she spots the half-finished cup of ginger tea on the nightstand. “Are you experiencing it just in the morning?”  
  
“Yes, thankfully. It’s always gone by noon.”

“That’s good, then. Once you’re into the fourth month you should feel ill less often. I’ll also recommend that you train less often, which I know you won’t like.”  
  
“I already told her that,” Felix points out.

“That’s not helpful,” Mercedes tells him, a smile on her face that causes him to scowl and Ingrid to stifle a giggle. “I know that for you, training and exercise is a large part of your life. Slowly lessen your load – walking is still fine at all times. Once you’ve had the baby, you can begin to pick it up again at whatever pace you feel is best.”

“Alright,” Ingrid says, and Felix recognises the look on her face as the one that is mentally taking notes. “And aside from that, is the baby doing fine?”  
  
“You’ll be a better judge of that than I at this point,” Mercedes admits. “I’ll return in a month or so to do another check-up, and then I’ll be able to know better. In the unlikely event that something happens, don’t wait for me. Any healer worth their salt will be able to help you.”  
  
That sentence doesn’t help Ingrid, but she smiles anyway. Felix feels her grip tighten on his hand – clearly, something happening to the baby has been on her mind. Maybe it’s paranoia, maybe she can feel something. For her sake, Felix almost hopes it’s the former.

* * *

Her paranoia, as it seems, does fade over time. As her stomach swells, the baby grows, and each check-up from Mercedes assures Ingrid that the baby is doing well. She always acts so nicely in front of Mercedes, but Felix knows Ingrid’s frustrations better than anyone else.

The cleric decides to stay in a nearby town when Ingrid reaches halfway through her eighth month. Felix of course offers her a room in the Manor – there are plenty that go unused. But Mercedes declines, citing her usefulness in the town at a time when there are so many babies being born.

She was never supposed to be a midwife, Felix muses. Mercedes was a battle healer, but with no battlefields anymore, perhaps she is more useful helping new life to begin than taking it. In a way, that’s how he feels with every passing day, waiting for something to happen.

Ingrid gets impatient rather quickly. Every morning she walks around the gardens, Felix trailing behind her even though he really should be working. If it’s raining she walks around the corridors instead, up and down the stairs, forwards and backwards. Felix has even caught her walking along the aisles of the library, weaving in between bookshelves.

Apparently walking can start labour. This is what Ingrid has heard anyway, but Felix isn’t convinced that it works, considering the baby still isn’t here and Ingrid has walked more in the last week than she has in the last year. She’s bored, she tells him, bored of her stomach feeling like it extends a mile past her toes, bored of not being to sleep comfortably, bored of not being able to train.

After all her walking, it begins in the middle of the night, as most things often do, unexpected, inconvenient. That’s what she grumbles about when she wakes Felix with her tossing and turning. She gets out of bed, wandering around the room, leaving and walking to the end of the corridor and coming back.

“What are you doing?” He grumbles, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“I think the baby’s coming,” she says. “I don’t feel right.”  
  
“And you didn’t think to tell me?”  
  
“It’s not here yet.” She rolls her eyes, sitting down at the edge of the bed. Her face contorts in pain, relaxing a moment later.

“I’ll send someone for Mercedes,” Felix says, sliding out of bed.

“Don’t wake anyone,” Ingrid says dismissively. “It’s the middle of the night!”

“And you’re literally having a baby. I’ll send someone into town.”

He leaves her there for a moment and flees the room. His heart beats faster than he thinks it’s ever beaten in his life as he descends the stairs, bare feet running across the ceramic tile of the entrance hall, not caring for the chill of the floor. He reaches the staff quarters, banging on the door of the first person he gets to.

Felix wakes up half the corridor, but it’s the housekeeper that comes to the door, bleary eyed from an interrupted sleep. Felix has no time for sleepiness, his own brushed off when Ingrid got up.

“The baby’s coming,” he says, words tumbling out of his mouth with no interjection from his brain. “Go find Mercedes in the town, or send someone else to do it. And quick!”

It turns out that they didn’t have to go quickly. Mercedes arrives within the hour, and hurries up to where Ingrid is still pacing the room. She coaxes the woman back into bed, and sends Felix to find the rest of the supplies. The sun rises with no change in Ingrid’s condition, aside from the confirmation that the baby really is coming.

Felix is sent for breakfast, the only thing he can do to make himself useful. Even in labour, all Ingrid can think about is her stomach, and Mercedes is too polite to refuse Ingrid’s insistence that she should eat. But the baby doesn’t look like it’s going to be putting in an appearance in the next ten minutes, so Felix annoys the cook, who is more concerned to know if Ingrid is okay.

Minutes stretch on into hours. Ingrid gets bored of Felix sitting there looking at her, waiting for something to happen, and sends him away. He doesn’t go far – just to his office, where he sits with the door open. His mind is spinning too much to do any real work, but he manages to pen a letter to Sylvain telling him about the arrival.

As morning turns to afternoon, Felix risks sticking his head back into the bedroom. Ingrid glares at him, but doesn’t say anything, and so he stands in the doorway in limbo, not sure if he’s allowed in or not. Mercedes assures her that it’s almost time, they’re so close now. Ingrid seems fine for a moment, and then she grits her teeth as another wave of pain washes over her.

Felix moves to Ingrid’s side and takes her hand, knowing full well that he’s at risk of breaking all the bones in his hand. But Mercedes positions herself at the end of the bed, and Ingrid shuts her eyes, and within minutes, the baby has arrived. Mercedes wraps the baby in a towel at first, cleaning it off, before passing it across to Ingrid, who looks down at the tiny form with awe painted on all her features.

“It’s a girl,” Mercedes tells them, a smile on her face. Felix’s mouth opens and closes – a girl. The first girl born into the Fraldarius family in years, bundled in a towel, held by her mother, her tiny face all screwed up, eyes tightly closed.

Felix can’t help but stare. The baby is tiny, smaller than Felix could ever have conceived. He’s not sure he’s even _seen_ a real baby before, now that he thinks back on it. Ingrid passes the little bundle to him, and he carefully holds his child in his arms, almost certain that he’ll drop her. But his hands steady themselves, and he keeps his gaze firmly on their daughter.

Ingrid gives instructions to Mercedes about where to find the baby’s things – clothes that they’ve acquired to dress her in, blankets. The cot has been built for weeks and stands at the foot of the bed, but even when he himself lacks sleep, Felix can’t imagine having to let go of the baby.

“What will we call her?” Ingrid asks as he passes the baby back to her so that Ingrid can dress her.

“I… I don’t know. I hadn’t thought that far, really. I’m still in shock that she’s actually here.”  
  
“I can tell,” Ingrid laughs. She’s quiet for a moment as she thinks. “Nora.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Why not?”

“Nora Fraldarius, really?”  
  
“Yeah, okay,” Ingrid relents. “Why didn’t we talk about this before?”  
  
“We tried to, but you couldn’t think of anything you liked.”  
  
“Madeline?” She suggests, and Felix’s eyes widen.

“That was my mother’s name. Maybe a middle name?”  
  
“Oh, of course. Sorry, I-“  
  
“It’s okay. It’s been a long time, you never met her. I don’t talk about her.”  
  
“I still should have known,” Ingrid insists, reaching out to take his hand.

“Clara?” Felix says, and Ingrid’s eyes light up before she casts them down to the baby.

“Clara Madeline Fraldarius… I think it sounds nice,” she says, stroking the baby’s cheek with her index finger.

“Then Clara she is.”

* * *

In the summer, the Fraldarius family sit in the garden, under the shade of a large hazel tree. Ingrid’s head rests in Felix’s lap as she lies on the grass. Felix’s hands absently brush through her hair as he gazes instead at baby Clara resting on her mother’s stomach, not even half a year old and still growing so fast. Ingrid’s eyes flash to Felix’s, and both of them smile, finally feeling content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't replied to any comments on this bc i keep forgetting but I've seen them all and I'm glad people have enjoyed this up till now! thank u friends


End file.
